


Tether

by Menirva



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: F/M, Hallucinations, M/M, Mentions of past sexual abuse of a minor, Red String of Fate, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, soul mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-03 08:10:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 112,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6603373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menirva/pseuds/Menirva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The red string of fate connects those who are destined to meet regardless of time, place, or circumstances. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break. </p>
<p>No matter how hard Bane, Blake, and Barsad try to tear it apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

     For as long as he can remember, Bane has always enjoyed the reassuring feeling of silky, soft strings tied neatly around his pinkies, curling around his wrists and palms. It is when he is a little more grown that they begin to feel different, warm and vibrant; first one and then the other begins to almost hum with life, both different and wonderful as he winds them together in his hands and gives them playful pulls in return.   
  
They are his only toys in the dark pit, and the thick red feels good against his cheeks when he rubs it against them. The strings follow him everywhere, constant companions. When he is older, able to be curious about such things, he wonders how they never get caught up in the prison bars, how they never sink down into the muck of the cell floors but instead float ethereally in the air like beams of light.  
  
When he is old enough to wander the prison on bowed legs and knobbed knees, he gives chase to them, tries to discover where they lead. He winds the string up around his arms and cracks a little smile at how it looks against his pale skin, all red and bright. He picks loose any knots carefully, with tiny plucks and pulls of still-growing fingers, smooths it and winds again, following and following until he feels the faint brush of light against his cheeks.  
  
He peers up with bright eyes to watch the twin strings climbing up the dirty stone walls, like two blazing trails, looping over the edge of the pit and beckoning him to follow. He grasps onto the ends and pulls so that he can lift himself up, pursue them.  
  
He falls down onto the filth of the dirt floor, scraping his feet.

  
He tries again, and again, leaping up and holding tight, feeling them slip through his fingers again and again, breeding a sense of hopeless frustration in him. It makes another prisoner nearby angry, earns him a backhand that he is too small to fight back against, yet.  
  
“Go! Stop making everyone else miserable playing with them, child."  
  
Confused and feeling defeated, he slumps back to his cell. He finally asks the doctor, one of the few in the prison who speaks to him, the closest thing he has had to a caretaker since he was lowered down here to pay for another’s sins.  
  
“The strings?" The doctor shakes his head, glances down at his right hand. “No one has told you of them?" He spits onto the ground. “They are nothing. Do not concern yourself with things you cannot have."  
  
Bane persists while he fiddles with them between his fingers, his eyes hungry for knowledge. He does not understand that the doctor is trying to spare him just one more hardship. Finally, he explains that the red strings of fate are an unbreakable tether that lead to those that they are destined to love, to become intertwined with forever, once they meet. What the doctor does not tell him is that it is not a guarantee, that many go through their life without finding an end to those strings around their fingers.  
  
Bane wants to see. It is the first time he has ever cared about leaving the pit. He has never given it thought, before. It is home, but there are others outside of the pit that are part of him, and when he hears such a thing, the idea makes his soul ache with a hunger he did not know existed in himself. He does not understand what love is, only that he wants it for himself, wants to give it in return.  
  
“Why can I not go up? I want to climb them." He pulls on them restlessly, can feel them between his fingers, still thrumming and so lively, now. He wonders if the people on the other side can feel him pulling, trying to be close.  
  
“They are ethereal things, always there, but not tangible."  
  
When the doctor explains ‘tangible’, Bane shakes his head stubbornly.  
  
“I feel them."  
  
If the doctor is surprised he does not show it. “There is more than one? Then it will be worse for you than most." The man spits again, and refuses to say more on the subject.  
  
He tries for days, and ends up only with scraped-raw knees and elbows. He gets an infection from the grime of the floor grinding into them, and falls ill. The others around him seem more settled, after, having grown uneasy at his childish determination calling such attention to the strings, and his youthful enthusiasm that will soon be crushed. In the pit, the strings are never mentioned; such heartache need not be said.  
  
Bane lies sore on his mat, fever hot from sickness and swollen with pain. He strokes the cool strings under his dirty fingertips and gives weak, hopeful tugs. If he cannot find those on the other end, surely they will come to him. It is a thought that cools his fever and lets him sleep.  
  
As he grows, he waits and waits, each day longing and watching his strings disappear to far off places with names he has never heard of, touching into a sun he has never seen. He waits and pulls and tugs and hopes until the strings slowly cease to be a comfort, the constant thrum becoming a mockery.  
  
Bane eventually realizes the truth. No one is going to come find him. He stops touching them. He ignores the sensations they give until finally one then the other stops. It is a relief.  
  
He watches those strings and hates the false hope they give. He understands why the prisoners watched him with baleful eyes as a child. He had reminded them too sharply of all they would never have.  
  
He imagines what it would like look, were he able to see them from each prisoner, scores of vicious, scarlet lies all lined up and looping over the wall of their hell, beckoning and never being answered. He imagines that this is why men choose the climb, to get as close to the lie as possible. He has seen more than one man close his eyes and grasp at the invisible threads in the air as he crashes down to a broken heap, back into the squalor.  
  
When he has aged, still growing into his limbs but no longer considered a babe, he hears the soft melody in the cell beside him, a mother singing to her young child, and it draws him close. With it, he casts aside the nonsense and unhappiness the threads have brought him. He dedicates himself to a salvation more tangible.

  
____________________

  
Barsad never pays the loops of red around his fingers much mind until one day, while he is playing in the garden. He stops and giggles at the tickly feeling of tiny quick pulls at his little pinky. His mothers pause in their conversation and one scoops him up, kisses over his cheeks playfully.  
  
“Silly boy, is someone pulling your string?" She sounds delighted, and he nuzzles into her warm, dark skin. She smells like gun oil and lilies, and he sniffs contently into her blouse while she carries him over to his other mama who looks just as pleased. She pats his cheek and her pale hands smell like steel and citrus.  
  
“Show me which finger has the string, angel."  
  
He blinks up at her, and their blue eyes match and sparkle together in the sunshine when he holds up both hands.  
  
His mamas nearly squeal together in excitement, and his eyes go wide with confusion while they cuddle and coo over his pinkies.  
  
“It’s so rare."  
  
“I know. Our boy has always been special, though; he deserves two soul mates, doesn’t he?"  
  
They smile in agreement and they tell him stories about strings and fate and love.  
  
Barsad likes the strings, the constant little pulls make him grin from ear to ear and his mothers explain he will probably feel something from the other one day, too. He plucks them lightly all of the time, like strings of a guitar, sending a constant light thrumming through them and earning his mothers’ approval. They explain that the pulls he feels are from someone who will one day love him, and that he is sending his love right back.  
  
The day he feels a little shiver of vibration through his second string he nearly topples down the porch steps to run and tell them. They are just as excited.  
  
As he grows, he listens to their stories with a bright-eyed exuberance. His mothers share an amused smile when he clutches at their pantlegs and begs to hear them again and again until they give in to his whim, sit him down between them and tell them his favorite, the one about their own.  
  
“We met when you were in your mother’s tummy," one explains, and it leads to so many other questions, but finally he learns it all, every bit, of meeting on opposite sides of a warzone. Of putting aside differences, laying down weapons and joining one another in peace.  
  
“It is not always easy,” one tells him when he asks for perhaps the thousandth time for the story before bed, clutching tight to his covers and closing his eyes for a kiss on the forehead, “but it is worth struggle. They will be a part of you, and you must dedicate yourself to them."  
  
When he sleeps, he dreams about the day they will meet and he will have a love as strong as the one he sees in his parents’ eyes. It fills him with an anxious sort of excitement as he grows and constantly strokes and plucks each string, treasuring the tiny pulls from one and the light vibrations of the other. Each makes him smile, and his dreams are always sweet.  
  
He wonders why one day the little pulls and tugs stop. He plucks at the string and feels it thrum between his fingers, willing the little pulls to continue, but they never do. He tells his mothers, and they go quiet. He’s scared to ask again, but he looks it up in a book and spends the day sick with worry that one of his strings has died before they have ever met.  
  
He strokes and plucks and it hurts his heart when it’s never returned. When the lively thrum of the other stops shortly after, it nearly breaks him. He doesn’t tell his mothers. He tells them he can feel them both, so neither have to worry for him.  
  
He cannot bring himself to touch them anymore.  
  
It isn’t until he is a little older that he realizes the fallacy in his younger mind. For both strings to stop so closely together could mean many things, but the most likely of which is a hurtful truth that cuts into him like a knife.  
  
They have found one another, and have no need to look for him.  
  
When he leaves home at 16, he lets his mothers think it is to search for them. Instead, it is to forget them. He is far from the only soul who has never found a match or has lost one. There are many, and they choose to dedicate their lives to something else. Barsad decides he will search for a greater cause.  
  
He can shoot, can fight. He was taught this by them young, and it means he is noticed quickly, hired. His skills grow, and he travels the world, weary of it in only a couple of years. Once he thought he would do so to find them, now he prays he never sees the happiness they have without him.  
  
He does not find the League. As is their way, they find him, but with them he finally finds something to dedicate his life to. It is a relief to give his devotion to something at last, and he will not fault them the joy they have together; he will simply work to make the world better for them.

  
____________________

  
  


John is only a baby when his strings start to pull and thrum respectively. His mama knows, and realizes he has a pair because he giggles and wiggles both sets of fingers happily into the air.   
  
When he’s old enough to understand a little bit, she explains that if he can feel them reaching out to him already, then his strings are probably a little bit older than he is, and that he should let them know he can feel them now, too.  
  
“Do you want to see how, my sweet boy?" She smiles and runs her fingers through his thick curls when he bobs his head in curious agreement.  
  
“Watch carefully."  
  
She shows him how she used to say hello to his daddy when she was just a little girl, rubbing her own invisible string back and forth between her fingers tips and sending across gentle vibrations. He watches closely, and giggles when his daddy comes in and takes hold of his mama’s right hand playfully with his left, demanding to know why she is tickling his string while he is trying to get work done.  
  
John takes hold of his own strings. His fingers are small, but he is determined to get it right. He takes turns saying hello to them both with careful, loving twists of his fingers.  
  
He watches his mother and father, poor and young but so in love. They found their strings early, and they share kisses in front of him, hold their hands together all of the time, smile and laugh. It always makes him happy, and he twists the strings together more, hopefully, anticipating.  
  
John doesn’t remember much when she goes. He doesn’t remember how happy they were or their smiles, or how his mama taught him to twist his strings. He only sees how sad his daddy is now, how he only goes out at night and then stays out until the sun comes up, how the phone never stops ringing but is never answered.  
  
How he bleeds on the floor and clasps his left hand tightly shut when they come to collect.  
  
His mama never warned him how badly it would hurt if someone lost the others attached to them. It fills him with a sense of angry resentment that she was just going to let him hurt like that, all by himself, because if there is one constant in John’s life, it is that he has learned that everyone leaves him behind, eventually.  
  
If he had not learned on his own, he might have pursued them, found them, and then they would have gone away, making everything hurt so much more.  
  
He hates those strings and all of the anger and loss they represent. He learns young to stop twisting them. He ignores the little pulls of one and the soft thrumming of the other. They’ll learn soon enough, too, that everyone leaves John.  
  
He grows full of that angry resentment until it soaks into his bones and marrow, shapes who he is, and everyone who looks into his eyes can see it. He’s shuffled around and finally sent to a boys’ home so that others don’t have to see the look of one lost so young in life. When he practices smiling carefully in the mirror, pushing his face with his small fingers into a slightly-off smile, he still ignores the little sensations tingling over his pinkies; he doesn’t look at his hands in the mirror, and learns to smile perfectly.  
  
When they stop, one and then finally the other, he only feels like he’s been proven right. It’s good. He hopes it means they have found each other, and never come looking for him. He knows most people leave at a certain age, go searching, sometimes all across the world to find their others, but not John. John doesn’t want to find them.  
  
He stays in Gotham. There is a kernel of fear in him, planted deep beneath the anger, that if he leaves the safety of the city for even a minute he might find them and be hopelessly trapped by fate.   
  
So he refuses. He never sets foot beyond the city walls, and he uses his anger as a guiding tool to dedicate himself to a city that took so much away from him but still keeps him safe, alone.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Barsad sinks his shovel down into the frozen earth, the dull thud of it vibrating through his chilled, gloved hands and making them ache from numbness. The body beside him is wrapped up in a rough cloth, and the burial is more than the corpse deserves, but Barsad often finds himself opting to bury those he kills in the League's name. The execution and consequential burial gives him a task to focus on, something to put all of his effort into. The small, frozen spadefuls of earth pile up, and he is sweating beneath his thick clothing before long. He is used to it, and only welcomes the burn of his muscles straining as the wind rushes past his cheeks, ruddying them.

He is miles from their home, at the moment, taking temporary refuge in one of the smaller towns that makes a meager living at the base of the mountain, not thriving, but in place for so long that there is no thought of ever abandoning that which they call home. He has been sent down to it via a message to exterminate the vermin that had been brought there by another village. To the small groups of people who make their lives on the mountain, the League is considered sacred, something they defer to, to give up their criminals to, to make offerings to. The body at his feet was once a man who had killed another in cold blood, and now that same chilled blood is leaking out of the in which cloth it is wrapped.

None of the villagers are with him. This is League business, and after the man was handed over to be extinguished, he was rapidly abandoned. It is just as well. He is glad for the peace of it, and hopes only for a moment that the small dwelling he has been invited into for the evening will have something to warm his belly with after the work is done, be it spirits or soup, he is certainly not picky.

There are footsteps, barely there, soft crunches in the fresh snow that has fallen that afternoon. He grips the shovel in a tighter grip, preparing to attack if needed. It is most likely a villager, but vigilance has been ingrained in him now. He swings around, his feet shifting easily in the snow as he spots who approaches. When he sees that it is a child, he stops brandishing the shovel as a weapon. At least he must assume it is a child; it is wrapped up from head to toe in furs, only a soft face with sharp eyes and red cheeks peers up at him, unfazed, not a hint of fear even before he lets the tip of the shovel sink back into the ground.

“What is it?” He does not turn from the child. Even a child can be deadly with one's back turned, but he scoops up another spadeful of earth and overturns it.

Its lips purse. Even as covered as it is, with a closer inspection and those soft features he would have to presume that he is looking at a young girl, perhaps just entering her teen years, perhaps earlier, it is impossible to know for certain, but when she speaks it at least confirms his suspicions of her gender.

“You are… Barsad.” It is said haltingly, as though her tongue is tripping over the simple phrase. It is not her native tongue, though it is what everyone who lives at the base of the mountain is born into speaking.

“You are not from the village,” he understands slowly. “Why are you seeking them?” He is not arrogant enough to assume that she is simply looking for him. She has merely found him through the village, and thinks he will take her to them. Why she is seeking them and why she thinks him soft enough to be convinced to take a child along on the journey are two separate matters.

Her brow furrows in frustration. She does not understand.

“English?” he asks after a moment, and she does not brighten, but her face clears slightly.

“English.” She says it quietly, almost lost in the wind. It is still not her native language, but she is capable of speaking it with a thick accent. She repeats her words again and he nods slowly.

“I am, little one, but you will not find what you seek from me.” He says it firmly as he nudges his booted foot against the body by his feet. A hint. She barely even glances at the corpse, holding the air of one who has seen so many that it no longer even shows in her eyes to see death so close. It makes him pause in his work, tugging down his thick face covering.

“What is it that you are truly seeking, child?”

Her eyes pierce into his. It is as though she has him on hooks, drawing him down closer to her level as she speaks firmly, her faint, warm breath rushing across his face and making him forget the wind. “My father. Your leader.”

Surely there is no reason to believe her. And yet, there is even less reason not to. Who would dare claim to be the child of Ra's Al Ghul without it being the truth? He nearly takes a step back, his boot crunching into the ground softly before he stands again, shoves his shovel into the dirt. Does he know of her? He wants to ask. He wants to send her away. He is no one in the League, simply a disciple, and this is a sudden uncertain responsibility thrust onto him that he knows not what to do with.

“You know who I am looking for. You will take me to him!” Her voice turns higher when she thinks she is being ignored.

“Hush. I am thinking.” His lip almost quirks at the sudden purse of hers, the outward huff of breath. “I must bury this. Then I will think of what to do with you.”

It is a surprise when she yanks the shovel from his hands, enough of one that he lets it go and his lidded eyes blink slowly at the sharp scraping noise when she digs it into the ground. “Then we will bury it. You are being too slow.”

“You will not be much faster with those arms.” He ignores her noise of protest when he takes the shovel back and digs. “How did you even survive the trip here?”

“It was nothing.” She says it darkly, and it sends a creeping sensation down Barsad's spine. He believes it. Whatever this child has endured, the mountain is nothing to her.

“Roll the body in,” he says finally, content with the shallow grave. She does not hesitate, only kicking the body until it is in place, shoving at frozen dirt with her hands to bury it faster. He watches her tamp the earth down and stand, regarding him cautiously.

“It is too dark to travel now;” he holds up a hand to quell her protest, “we will return in the morning.”

She shadows him back to the village, silent, but always watching him with suspicion, as if she thinks he will attack at a moment’s notice and she must always be vigilant. He is far too tired to even think of it, and he has no taste for harming a child. He only sighs wearily and tugs off his hat, his gloves, when he reaches the small room set aside for him. There is a brazier there, the coals barely glowing, but he stokes them, brings them to life again as she watches him.

When he leaves it to gather up the small cooking supplies left for him, she nearly thrusts her hands into it, her slender, near frostbitten fingers desperate to thaw. He clicks his tongue.

“You will burn yourself.”

“I won't,” she replies, but her fingers withdraw slightly. She tugs off the hat she was wearing, her coat after. She is lean, nearly emaciated. She looks far too fragile to have traveled so far to see him. Her hair is closely shorn, and he suspects it has been done with the small, crude knife tucked to her belt. He feels like he is feeding a stray when he ladles out a bowlful of soup for himself and then gives her the pot. She devours every drop, and her face softens slightly with the sharp pain of hunger no longer lining her eyes. It is replaced with drowsiness, and her eyes droop. He reaches out cautiously to guide her to the sleeping pallet and she jerks awake, her agile hand already on her knife.

“I was putting you to bed, child.”

“I don't need to sleep.”

“You do if you wish to make it up the mountain alive,” Barsad says to her as he lays out a blanket. She bites into her lip, uncertain, looking younger than he has seen her so far. It is pointless to tell her he will not harm her. She has no reason to trust him. Yet he finds himself doing it, anyway.

“I will guard your sleep.” 

It must be something familiar, something close to her heart, because her face changes. It becomes full of a wistfulness that he knows too well in his own heart. Perhaps it is then that he realizes that, whatever becomes of this child, he feels inclined to keep her safe. She is alone, and he knows what a damning feeling that is. He glances down to his hands, two lifeless strings there, always there, never moving. She slides over to the pallet and lets her head drop down onto it, slowly. When she curls in on herself, her eyes finally close.

“My name is Talia.” She whispers it softly as Barsad stretches out on the blanket not far from her.

“It is good to meet you, Ms. Talia,” he returns just as quietly as her breathing changes with sleep.

Talia keeps up admirably. They do not speak much. It is too cold, the wind ripping around them taking all of their focus, but she keeps close to him, is smart enough to use his body to block the worst of the winter storm so that she is not blown away. When they break to eat some frozen bread, he takes her frozen fingers and warms them between his hands before they continue. When the journey is over, she stares up at the building, small blue eyes lit up in wonder.

“He is there?”

“He is, if he is truly who you say he is.”

She nods with a determined dip of her head, and she is ahead of him, walking through the large doors before him, as though she has led him here. His lips twist slightly with amusement, and he makes her wait impatiently as he sets down the shovel he has carried with them, taking off their soaked coats. He is not certain he will be granted an audience with Ra's Al Ghul, but perhaps his daughter will be.

The announcement is met with more than a small measure of surprise. Talia is led away from him and into a private meeting before Barsad has time to say another word in the matter. He raises his hand up, almost to interject that he should come along with her, but he realizes it is far from his place. He stays in the halls, instead, leans against the chilly brick and closes his eyes for only a moment to rest. The journey took much out of him.

His hand snaps out to capture up a slender wrist. When he blinks his eyes open, Talia is standing over him, her hand stilled over his face. He lets her go with a quiet apology. Falling asleep in the middle of the hall, dropping down to curl up against the stone wall without even waking—how embarrassing for him. Talia pulls her hand back, and he realizes that she is not alone. Ra's Al Ghul stands behind her, watching, and Barsad stands quickly, his head dipping low in greeting.

“Thank you.” It is all he says, and Barsad nods. No other words are needed. Talia follows after her father, but her head turns back. She watches him as she walks down the long hall. He wonders if this brief encounter will be their last meeting.

It is not. She finds him in the lunch halls, carrying over a tray wider than the span of her body, and plunking it down beside him. It has been at least a week, and she looks stronger, hearty food meant to put muscle on bone having done her a world of good. She is still slender, but she does not look as though she might snap in half. He tilts his head to greet her as he bites into a piece of fruit.

“Should you not be with your father?”

“I wish to eat with you,” she says simply, and so she does. Their meals are silent, at first. She watches him eat as she devours everything on her plate, quickly, as though she is scared it might be taken from her. She at times looks ill, after, clearly not used to having so much at once, or at all, but she never slows or leaves a scrap behind. Slowly, she begins to speak to him, and when he asks her questions she answers them cautiously.

“I do not know how long I have been looking,” she tells him one day as she scraps the metal bowl clean of porridge, “I only know that it has been a long time, and that I have to go home again to help him.”

“Help him? Your father?” He cannot help but be curious.

She shakes her head quickly and her eyes light up, as though this is finally a topic that truly interests her. “No, my friend. He saved me, and now I will save him.” It is said so earnestly, with the determined passion that only a child could possess.

“Tell me about him.”

“He is strong. He saved me and now it is my turn,” she repeats, and yet she will not say much beyond it. 

He finds out later that her father has forbidden her to talk about it in depth. There is something being planned. It is being whispered about in the halls: a secret mission. A mission that is being kept secret among even their brothers is something for tongues to wag about. It is also something that makes him volunteer. It is not hard to guess that his request is accepted because Talia has an interest in him. As far as he has seen, she has not even spoken to another here besides her father.

Barsad is called in to speak with Ra's Al Ghul, and he makes sure he is respectful. Their leader is a wise man. He does not always agree with League decisions, but they are a far cry better than any he has seen in the so-called civilized parts of the world. They are building to something greater, making the world better, and that means sacrifice. He is filled in on details of the mission. They are looking for a pit, hell on earth, it seems. Talia was there and escaped. She has been searching the globe for several years on her own. Barsad cannot fathom her resourcefulness, to have traveled so far alone.

“It is being searched for.” His hand touches lightly over the desk and his voice is distracted. There are satellite maps strewn across it. “We know the country, but not the exact location. It is a place not meant to be found.”

“And the one Talia is looking for, her friend?” Barsad cannot help but ask.

“She thinks this is to rescue him, that boy in the pit who protected her.” Ra's glances out the window and shakes his head. It is clear that he has reached the same conclusion that Barsad has. If there is a boy there who raised this girl from hell, then he has been punished for it. There is no doubt in Barsad's mind that it has cost him his life.

“Why are we going, then?” Perhaps it is wrong to ask so many questions, but he is thirsty for this knowledge, for this little one's mysterious past. He thinks of her often, is astonished that she has managed so easily to worm her way into a heart that Barsad thought was long since too jaded to take in another.

“It was not merely Talia, there,” Ra's says distantly. “Her mother was there, though Talia has informed me that she has passed.” Ra's looks down at his hand as he says the words, it traces over an invisible thread, and Barsad understands. This is not a rescue mission, as Talia believes. It is vengeance.

Barsad does not retract his choice to volunteer, anyway. Talia refuses to be left behind, and though it seems wrong to say it, it is not hard to see that she is more comfortable with him than her father. By now, she shadows him near constantly. He has woken more than once to find her sleeping beside him, curled in a ball. He often puts an arm around her, and it eases the tight, coiled up position she sleeps in. 

“You remind me of him,” Talia tells him quietly one day, and he does not have to ask who. He almost wants to ask if the boy was her string, but it feels cruel if it is so. There is no talk of strings in the League. He is not even certain what she knows of them.

“Do I look like him?” Barsad asks, curious, and it draws a sharp laugh from her, the first he has heard, and it makes him smile softly.

“No. You look nothing like him, but you feel the same,” she tells him earnestly, unsure how to put it into words. It makes him feel badly. While they pack for the journey, almost a year after Talia has joined them, he makes an oath to himself that he will be there for her when she discovers the inevitable. He glances down at the constant reminder on his fingers as he pulls on his gloves. He understands loss, even though it is a different loss than her own, and he will do what he can to help her recover from it.

Their journey takes them to far off lands. The chill of the mountain is replaced with the scorching heat of the desert. Talia is vibrant there. She seems to not even feel the heat while the sweat drips from the rest of the group. She insisted on coming along. Barsad is uncertain that it is for the best, but he is not her father. Now, she practically dances on the sands the closer they find themselves to hell.

Barsad himself is feeling strange, not quite right inside, though he cannot place why. He thinks that it must be the heat. He is near startled when Talia's hand makes her way into his own. He gives her the smallest of smiles as she tugs him along.

“I must speak with you.” Her tone is all seriousness. She never sounds like a child.

“Very well, Ms. Talia, if you must,” he replies, holding back his amusement at how her brow furrows at the title.

Talia glances at the other men before she speaks, but no one is paying her mind but him. Her father is at the front of the group and his eyes are cast forward. She looks back to him. “I wish to go down with you.”

Barsad shakes his head quickly, even seeing that it earns her great displeasure. Ra's Al Ghul has forbidden her from descending with them. He agrees with it. It makes sense for many reasons.

“It is no place for a child.”

“I have spent my entire childhood there,” she hisses out in anger, and her nails dig into the palm of his hand. “Do you think me scared to return to it? It is my home.”

Her home is in hell. Barsad feels a pang of something unpleasant in his chest, the thought that any child could grow up in such a way. He squeezes her hand more gently than she is holding his own. He begins to argue, but she continues.

“I must go down. You will not know who to look for.”

When he looks down, her eyes are fierce and as deep a blue as the sky that beats down on them all. There is no thought in her mind that her friend could possibly be dead. His gaze goes to her hand, small in his grip, and to the red string that dips down between them. He cannot help but ask.

“Is he your string, Talia?”

She looks puzzled by the question. “My string?”

He nods slowly and lifts her hand. “The string on your finger, does it connect to his?”

Talia shakes her head quickly at that, the confusion turning to displeasure. “The strings are bad.”

“Bad?”

“Bad.” She repeats it vehemently. “We ignore them. They are bad for us.” She says it as though she is repeating a carefully taught lesson, something ingrained into her, and he understands. Who would ever see them as a thing to hold in awe when they were trapped in hell where their constant reminder would only bring suffering?

“They do not always have to be bad,” Barsad tells her quietly, though he is not certain he quite believes that, anymore. Talia only shakes her head in disagreement. 

“I will go down with you.”

“It is up to your father,” he finally says, not wishing to argue it any more.

“My father barely knows me.”

“And I know you no better, little one.” He is loath to point it out. It feels at this point as if she is the only connection he has in this world that is not born of blood and sweat.

“Untrue,” she says simply. “I must be down there. You will find a way.”

That night in his tent, against his better judgment, he slips her a rope, teaches her how to secure and tie it off. He tells her she must work quickly and be on the rope after they have descended, and before anyone can stop her. She nods. Determined.

It is the very next day that the scouts they have sent ahead return, nearly shouting in their excitement. It has been discovered and their speed quickens. They will burn out hell today, and leave nothing but an empty shell.

They come to the hole and Barsad is struck by what an innocuous thing it seems to be. It could have been merely an abandoned well, nothing more. It is hard to grasp that there are people down there, or perhaps people is too strong of a word. From the stories that have been coaxed out of Talia, he knows there are monsters down there, maggots straggling for life.

They cloak themselves, and Barsad goes to attach his own rope at the edge of the broken down well opening. He is so used to ignoring them that he does not see it, at first. He almost does not notice it at all, but when he does, a wave of ill washes over him.

His string. It is dipping down into the dark. Leading him into that pit. It cannot be. He clenches his eyes tightly and wills the sight away, but it remains. How can such a thing be? That one who is supposed to be part of his soul, who is supposed to compliment his own being, is down in that hell? What atrocity could he have committed? 

Let them be dead. Barsad prayed it fervently. It was a high possibility. He doubted many lasted long in that pit. He had heard enough tragic stories of a young hopeful following their string across the world only to be lead to a graveyard, to see their string traveling into the grass and earth in front of a tombstone. He imagines it much the same for him, that he will find perhaps a pile of bones with a thread weaving between the whitened remains, or he will see it sinking into the filthy bare dirt. It is the best he can hope for, the thought that there might be one of his strings alive down there, one of the monsters that they will execute, it is too much to bear.

Now he regrets volunteering. He would have never known, otherwise. Barsad no longer wishes to travel down into the dark, but he cannot simply refuse to go down now. He has no reason, beyond explaining, and he cannot bring himself to even speak of it. Even as the heat of the desert beats down on them, he feels a cold sweat running across his back. He settles his rifle over his shoulder and grips the rope between whitened knuckles as he descends into the dark.

They are silent, merely blotches of black against the high stone walls, and he sees glimpses of the vast structure that has been hidden away from the world. Then the first shots are fired, and it is chaos. It is a slaughter. He worries briefly for Talia when she makes her descent, but she is cloaked the same as the rest of them. There is no reason for any to fire at her, and the crowds in the pits are being thinned too quickly for them to bring her any harm. His own rifle is out, and it is tempting to merely close his eyes and fire into the crowd, to stay back against the wall of the pit and not go further into the catacomb like structure, the old and rusting metal cells that line the walls. But if he does not go, he will never know, and that thought is enough to push him forward.

Some beg to be spared, some try to fight. Even if the League is outnumbered by sheer mass, they have the upper hand, enough ammunition for all when those down here in the dank filth have nothing but crudely crafted weapons. It is not even a contest. His bullets are used liberally, and he gives most a quick death, a single bullet through the skull. Even under trial, his skill is not shaken, and there is little point in waste. Still, with each body felled and each spray of blood, he cannot help but look down quickly at the cooling corpse to see if it is him. It does not happen, though, and as the cells slowly empty out, he is filled with a vague sense of relief. It is as he suspected, and the thread that once lived here died long ago.

They begin to hunt for those hiding. He has not seen Talia yet, but there is enough chaos for him to have missed her descent. He begins to climb into the deeper tunnels, his caution greater as his boots sink into fetid water and muck. It is nearly empty here, or perhaps there are only those hiding, attempting to escape his fate. It is his responsibility to ferret them out, to finish the job.

That is, at least, what he tells himself as he follows the thin red line down the dank tunnel, his breathing shallower. He pulls his mask up over his face again to cover the foul scent in the air, sickness and rot that threatens to fill his lungs. There are bodies, ones not killed by their weapons, in various stages of decomposition. It seems he has stumbled onto their dumping grounds of sorts. The cells in the area are even more dilapidated, metal doors hanging off rusted hinges. When he nudges one with his boot, it fills the quieter hall with a low creak, and rats scuttle away from a pile of bodies stuffed in a ruined cell, nearly startling him. 

He looks into the pile, but his string does not end there, and so he moves on, creeping slowly. By now he is so deep in the tortuous catacombs that he can hear the sounds of his own footsteps clearly, the light squelch of his boots into filth. His finger restlessly slides over the trigger of his rifle, an amateurish move, something he has not done since he was but a boy learning to shoot, yet he finds whenever he pulls it away, it slips back just as quickly as he pulls in a nervous breath. He is spooking himself, and he has been trained better than this, but he feels like a child again, like he is being haunted and hunted by the old ghosts of his past as he goes down deeper.

It is the raspy, shallow breath that lets him know he is no longer alone.

It sets the hairs on his nape on end. He wishes to dismiss it, that it is nothing, merely rats, merely the faintest of shouting and gunfire still able to reach his ears, but he knows that not to be true. He is reaching the end of this long catacomb, and his foot crunches down onto a small bottle. It shatters beneath his boot, and when he raises it, there seems to be an old medical vial of some sorts, something strange to see here. The splinters cling to his boot, and he scrapes the heel against the wall. The echo causes the rasping breath to stop, and his head jerks up from its distraction.

There is something in the last cell.

Barsad aims his gun towards the shadowed lump in the corner. It shakes slowly in time with a raspy breath. One of his strings loops down from his fingers and floats towards the cell, never touching the muck on the ground, always hovering just above it.

He has a clear shot, and he should take it. Whatever is in that cell will only be trouble for him, but his fingers are unsteady, and when he tries to squeeze the trigger he finds they will not move. He must know. He will carry this moment inside of himself forever if he does not. He steps closer, lowering his gun. 

The body in the corner is bleeding, he can see that clearly even in the dim light. Its face is swathed in browned cloths, filthy unchanged bandages that have been layered again and again. He can only see eyes, dull blue and sickly, barely able to flicker up at him as the wasted away form he stares down at seems to have finally become aware of his presence, barely. Barsad watches as its boney hand squeezes shut slowly. He has never seen the string on someone else's finger before, but now he does, that thin red line knotted delicately as it leads up to his own.

Those distant eyes travel from their own hand to Barsad's, and then he knows it as well.

Barsad has never seen such hatred in another's eyes, not even those he has executed in the League’s name. There is a deep seated and absolute loathing there. He is despised, and he would have thought this knowledge would make what he must do easier. It does not, because inside of himself he feels guilt. This is not his fault. He has done nothing to cause one of his strings to be down here. Surely this is a man who has brought his punishment on himself. This is not something that should make his heart feel like it is splintering into pieces.

And yet he cannot pull his trigger. He crouches down instead, letting his rifle hang slack on its strap. The man there smells of decay, like whatever is hidden away behind those layers of muslin is rotting. His gloved hands touch close to the ground and his breathing is shaky as his hand reaches slowly, slowly closer, the strings that connect them coming together more and more as he reaches for those emaciated fingers.

There is still life in the bundle of rag and bone before him, because it snarls in anger, a broken dog who still has teeth, and the hand is snatched back. With it, Barsad snatches his gun back up into his grip.

“I am sorry,” he says simply. He is sure it is not understood, that it fixes nothing, but the words are on his lips, they twist sharply in his chest as he aims for a quick and clean death, something to end this suffering for them both.

“NO!” It is nearly a scream, high pitched and wild, and suddenly Barsad is slammed forward, something sharp and heavy cracking into the back of his head. He tastes blood on his tongue, and the room blackens before he slumps forward, his hand outstretched and open towards the figure before him.


	3. Chapter 3

Fine tremors run through Bane's hands. It is nothing new, they have not been still for some time. The pain makes his body vacillate between twitches and shakes to stock stillness, almost as if he is locked into place in his own body. What little help the doctor had once tried to give him is never enough to provide even the slightest edge taken off of his pain, and at times it had only seemed to make it worse. He has been cut into, has had rot scraped away from his face and back only for it to fester again. His time in the pit feels like he is no longer alive, only a shade, able to eat only the smallest morsels to keep himself alive when chewing feels like fresh knives in his face, when every swallow is torture. After months of having survived like this, he no longer wishes to. He has given up. She is free, and he expects nothing more from his life.

He stopped eating some time ago, stole what scarce medication he could from the doctor before he dragged his body down to the death tunnel himself. He had been ignored by most, laughed at and mocked by others. They had grown tired of using him for their own amusement when they found he no longer reacted to it, could no longer feel the pain over the agony in his face and back. He waited, but his body is too strong for all of its weakness. Even after the near useless pain medication is empty, even after his stomach has shut down and given up on ever being fed again, he is still there. He is still alive and it is a nightmare.

He knows that he has been drifting, phasing in and out of consciousness, though the true respite of sleep never comes over him. At times he sees her, playing in front of him in the dirt, and he is almost happy. He reaches for her, and she fades before he can even gather the strength to fully lift his arms.

What he has just seen before him, though, what he sees now sprawled at his feet, it seems real enough, too real. He has felt nothing strongly for some time, nothing has drawn him out of his stupor like seeing this, this deceiver before him. It had seemed only fitting when he lifted his gun at him. Good. Bane had long ago given up on even seeing him, had harbored an intense hate in his heart for this man and the other attached to him, kept away from him while he was locked below. When he sees his finger on the trigger he only closes his eyes, feeling the smallest piece of hate in his heart thaw, replaced with a quiet gratefulness. It is the least the man can do, to end all of this.

They open again at the scream, at the thud of his body.

“My friend!” It is shouted jubilantly, and it is a shock to his system to recognize that voice. It is her, back here again, and part of that fills him with dread, but to see her, to really see her one last time, he pushes it back. She slips past the body on the floor, and she is around him in moments, her slender arms bringing pain and comfort as they wrap around him. He wishes he had the strength in himself to hold her, to say her name, but he has not spoken in some time.

“I found you, my friend,” she whispers quietly, joyfully. “I have found my father, and come back for you. I knew you would survive, that you would be here for me. I will take you from here.”

She leaves him, and her booted feet thump heavily down the hall as she races through it. He would wonder if he imagined the entire exchange were it not for the man still sprawled prone before him, shallow breaths a sign that he is still alive. Bane considers him, wonders if there is enough strength left in his body to pick up the crumbling rock that Talia had used to render him immobile. He can barely lift his hand, though, let alone grasp, and too soon he is surrounded by others, others wearing the same shrouded clothing as this man, as Talia, and he narrows his eyes, confused in the daze. One kneels in front of him and his eyes are cold and calculating as they study his own for long silent moments. Bane can only stare back reproachfully.

“Bring him to the surface.” The man speaks and then he is gone. His hand goes to Talia's shoulder, to guide her away. She shrugs from it and dives down to take Bane's hand. She refuses to leave his side even when she is spoken to sharply, her hand gripping so tightly that it makes his bones ache.

“Talia—”

“No! You would have killed him if I had not come down. I told you he was alive. He is my friend, and now I must protect him until he is well again.” Her face has a stubborn set to it that he remembers now fondly. She does not leave him even when the men surround him and drag him to his feet.

It is a new fresh torture, to be moved after being still for so long. He can feel the atrophy in his limbs, and he cannot stand. He is dragged, instead, and each jarring bump sends fresh slices of pain through his body, makes his face and back vibrate and ache. He can only groan in pain. When he thinks to glance back at the man whose string is attached to one of his, he sees that he has been helped onto the shoulders of another. He bitterly wishes that he had been left behind for dead, or better, for him to be alive down here in his place, for him to have to see his string raised up over the mouth of the pit and to know he will never be able to follow. It is a vindictive thought, and it warms his heart. He wishes it were so, and he wishes that the owner of the other string was down there with them, both of their treacherous hearts and hopes locked away.

The thought is enough to keep him strong as he is secured with rope. When it lashes across his back, he only does not scream in agony because his mouth will not open wide enough for it to happen. Instead, his vision is lined with black, and he feels a hand suddenly gripping his, providing strength. They are slender fingers that grasp his, but they are too long to be Talia's. He clasps it tightly anyway, or as tightly as he can, probably no more than a feeble grasp as the pain is finally too much, too fresh, and he loses his grip on consciousness, fading into black.  
                                                                                            ____________________

John tosses the ball against the stone wall. It thwacks and echoes, snapping back to thump reassuringly in his hand. Snap, thwack, thump. It is a repetitive echo, each smack of the ball against the high stone wall made dirt crumble down, rain onto his head. He's too old for wall ball, and it's dark. It has to be late, curfew soon, and he'll get in trouble for missing it.

He looks up at the sky.

The ball falls from his fingertips and a gasp drops from his lips with it. There is no sky, only stone, stone that reaches up and up into a blackness that is unreachable, up and up until he feels dizzy and the walls seem to waver around him, things that could swallow and gobble. But they don’t, because he is down here, trapped, already swallowed whole by something else.

“H-hey!” He shouts it, hearing the waver of fear in his own voice as it bounces off of the walls. There is no one, and when he screams, dirt rains down again, but now it feels like it won't stop, like it is covering him faster than he can brush it off, coating him more and more.

Burying him alive.

He chokes, feeling dust filter into his lungs, mud coat his tongue. He screams again and smacks at the avalanche burying him, piling around his legs. He tries to run, but he can't get away, the dirt is everywhere, everything is dust and blur, and tears sting his eyes as panic fills him.

Something is pulling him. It's weak, barely felt with the dirt landing on him as he drops down on the floor, hyperventilating, scrambling around blindly, but it tugs and pulls his hand forward suddenly. Through the blur, the string on his hand is suddenly brilliant and red, breaking through the darkness, taut and jerking forward quickly. In desperation he follows it, staring down at the string as it leads him, nearly jumping out of his skin when a hand is suddenly over his, fingers so slender they look skeletal, nothing more than bones suddenly lacing with his own, pulling him forward until suddenly he is inside of the rock, in a crevice, sheltered away from the falling debris in the hidden alcove, sharing it with another.

He coughs, forcing dirt from his lungs, wheezing as a hand thumps lightly on his back. He can barely see, only hears a rattling breath that sounds like his own only more labored, more pained. What he can see is shrouded in cloths, the face, the body, stained a rusty red.

“Who?” The word sounds haunting, like it has been wrenched from the clothes, soaked with pain, and John shudders visibly, peering out of the crack to see the falling rocks now, feeling the vibration under his body. That boney hand touches him again and it's warm, warmer than it should be when it touches his shoulder, making his body loosen even as his heart wants to keep on racing.

“I have to be dreaming.” He mumbles it, near delirious in his haze, his head dropping back when slender fingers touch his brow.

“Dreaming?” The same pain, but there is curiosity in the tone now, like it is unquenchable. The finger traces over his brow and his eyelashes flutter under the delicate touch. He's never felt anything like it, not that he can remember, and while his body feels bruised, it is his heart that feels like it's aching. His eyes fly open and he sees the scarlet string on the stranger’s finger, the ribbon neat and clean, the only clean thing on him, and his eyes follow it down, down between their bodies pressed together in the crack of the wall.

Connected.

He gasps and jerks away, fingers sinking into the dirt as he claws into it, drags himself away and back into the debris. He can feel fingers grasp his ankle and he yanks away, a heavy stone glancing against his forehead, and pain blooms black in his vision, he tastes copper. There is another rock, and another, heavier, crashing down onto him, blood dripping down from his scalp, soaking into the dirt as he lets out a ragged sob. He sees the blur beside him, feels fingers touch his again.

“GET AWAY!” It is a wail, an agonized scream that takes him with sudden vertigo. He is sinking down, down and down and down where it is wet and he is lost forever.

He jerks awake. Splat. Drip.

His brings his hand up expecting sticky, hot wet, blood and dirt. It's cold. He's cold, fucking freezing, and when he sits up and focuses he can see the sidewalk, the park bench he's fallen asleep on, his backpack protectively tucked under his body to keep the few possessions he has from being stolen away while he manages to capture a few hours of sleep.

He stares down at his hands, watching the red strings tremble as his hands shake.


	4. Chapter 4

It is soft when Bane awakens. It is the only way he can think to describe it. He is covered in what he imagines is a clean blanket, and it is warm, but it is not the dank, humid heat of the pit. There is pain, but it is to such a lesser degree that it almost feels like nothing at all. He wonders if he has finally died, if this is as close a thing to 'heaven', that whispered about place in the pit where no one goes, as he can get. There are strange noises around him, and it creates a tempting lull to sleep to. It has been so long since he has slept properly, and he wants to go back even though the dreams have been strange, filled with a stranger, a young boy in the dark. It is still so much better, a wonder that he had finally been able to slip into them.  
  
“Bane,” her soft voice whispers his name hopefully, and he feels her hand slip into his, “friend, are you awake? You have been asleep so long.”  
  
He forces his eyes open slowly, only for her, to see her. He needs to see that they are no longer in the pit, that she is not trapped down there once more. It is a world of white that greets him, strangely shaped rooms of stranger material, machines, things that he has no words to describe. There is a tube, like a snake, and it goes into his arm, and he is clean. His hand goes to his face in an instant, horrified that she might see the ugliness there, but his hand brushes against soft, clean bandages. His eyes sweep across the room more, and there are so many things he cannot even begin to understand.  
  
It is overwhelming.  
  
It is easier to focus on her. She is laying her head against his hand and her small lips are curved up into a smile. “Good morning, friend,” she says with no small amount of joy in her inflection. Bane opens his mouth to speak, but he finds it will not move, his jaw feeling as though it has been locked into place. It must show in her eyes because she squeezes his hand in reassurance.  
  
“We are in a hospital. Doctors work here, many of them. They have been doing surgeries, to save your jaw, to clean out the infection in the bone. Your jaw is wired in place right now... but they think you will speak again one day, friend.” She delivers the news hopefully, and he pulls his hand from her grip so that he can slide it into her soft tufts of hair. It is no longer the downy softness it once was, the only soft thing to touch in the pit that he often felt through his fingers as she slept against him. He feels stronger than he has in some time, and his eyes focus on the bag connected to the tube traveling to his arm.  
  
“It has pain relievers inside, and fluid to keep you hydrated, vitamins to make you strong again,” she informs him seriously, sensing that he will want to know such things, and detailing them with a measure of seriousness to her tone. “They have been feeding you with a tube; it is interesting to see.”  
  
He manages a small amused noise at her interest, and her eyes sparkle. She looks well, no longer as gaunt as she once was. Her cheeks have color to them, and her face is healthy. It is a beautiful sight to see. He runs a rough finger across her cheek, and she smiles, bright, beautiful. It is worth everything he has endured to see it, to see her like this, beyond simply surviving, thriving.  
  
“Talia,” a soft voice speaks from a doorway and it sets him on edge, familiar.  
  
 _“I am sorry.”_  
  
“He is awake, Barsad.” She turns away from him and fixes her bright eyes on the man as he leans against the door. He looks uneasy, his arms crossed, his hands tucked under his elbows. It does nothing to hide the string that slides below his arms and drapes over the hospital bed, curling around Bane's little finger. “I told you he would wake soon.”  
  
“So you did,” the man, Barsad, confirms. There are bandages wrapped around his head, and his eyes are heavily lidded, but a cool blue peeks past them even though he does not meet Bane's eyes.  
  
“Barsad did not mean to try and shoot you,” Talia says as she looks between them both, clearly sensing the tension between them and misinterpreting it. “He did not know who you were. He did not know you were my friend, too.”  
  
Bane wishes to spit out that Barsad knew precisely who he was, but his jaw will not allow it, and then his mind catches onto Talia's words further. They send pain through his chest that has nothing to do with his face. 'Too'—Talia has befriended this man. He has wormed his way into her innocent heart. He can see it now by how she looks at him, quiet and serious, but more open, less guarded than he has seen her with any other. He had taught her in the pit to trust no man, but the rules outside of it are different, and she trusts this one. It is a cruel irony. In his heart, he wants this man dead, or at the very least nowhere near him, but he cannot deny Talia. She has had so little and has lost so much. He will not add to it.  
  
Barsad glances towards him at her words and he holds out his hand. “Your father is looking for you. He wishes for you to eat with him.”  
  
It is a lie, but Talia does not recognize it in Barsad's eyes like Bane can. He has seen many men lie, while he has always allowed few to even speak to her. She nods her head, and her small hand runs over his for a moment.  
  
“I will come back after our meal and keep you company,” she promises, and he squeezes the tips of her fingers in response. He watches her go, and Barsad remains.  
  
Bane wonders if he is here to finish the job he first failed in, to finish Bane. He watches him warily when he does not leave. He is nowhere near his former strength, but he is not the lump of rotting flesh that Barsad first found in the pit and saw fit to execute. If Barsad tries again, he will at least give him a fight, and his body tenses in anticipation for it as he walks over slowly. Without a word, the man pulls over one of the chairs that are lined against the wall and he sits. He finally lets their eyes meet, and Bane is unsure what to think of the look in them. He looks far away as he speaks, and yet he is looking into him.  
  
“She is right,” he says roughly, and there is something there Bane can recognize at least. It is guilt. “Perhaps it is best you cannot speak for this moment, so that I can explain.” He pauses and his pink tongue dips out to wet his lips, the palms of his hands rubbing slowly against his knees. “I did not know. I thought you were just another prisoner, a man sent down there to be punished for atrocious crimes. I thought that you were everything that I was fighting to rid the world of and to find you, to know that the world had attached you to me… It felt cruel. It felt like the kindest thing I could do for us both was to end you. Talia taught me otherwise, that you have been her protector since you were a young boy. I can only imagine that you had no reason to be down there at such a young age, just as she did not.”  
  
Bane watches him closely. It feels too much like a trap. This man's words are too gentle for all of the resentment that he holds in his burned out heart for him. It does not match all of the contempt he feels there nor the rage that roils inside of him. His hand reaches almost absently to curl around the string of his hand, an action he has not done in many years. He snatches it away with a flare of self-loathing in the pit of his stomach. But he is not fast enough, and Barsad has seen the aborted motion and his lips twitch. His fingers are slender, and the self-loathing inside of him drops out into uncertainty as he takes hold of the string between two fingers and he plucks it. Bane feels the sensation of it vibrating to his finger and it triggers his childhood, those nights alone when the strings were all he had, before he had given them up as a cruel mockery.  
  
“Let me tell you my story, Bane, and then I will leave if you wish.”  
  
It is not what he wishes. Bane wishes him to go now, in fact, without speaking at all, for he does not want to listen, but he cannot speak to protest. He only pulls his hands back further as if it can pull the string away from Barsad, but he can feel the vibrations still. It is a small measure of relief that the other is still motionless.   
  
“I longed to meet both of you, as most do, I imagine. I dreamed of finding you each night, of being complete with you both, of cherishing you both, but then you stopped calling out to me, and at first I thought you had perished... and then I thought you no longer wanted me.” He takes a steady breath and rubs his fingers together. “I accepted it, that you had found one another and were happy together without me, that my place in this world was for me to make it better for you both, even if I might never see you.”  
  
Barsad's words dumbfound him. There is such a wistful sincerity in them. He has never been spoken to like this, and it settles strangely in his stomach. He shakes his head slightly to clear it, feeling it grow dizzy with even the slight motion. Barsad shakes his own in return and his lips are twisted bitterly.  
  
“If only my naïve reasoning had been sound. When I saw you there, my world crashed down. I feared the worst, as well, and was faced with the knowledge that I have failed you, and wherever our other is, I have failed them, too, for they are just as alone, perhaps they truly are dead. I do not expect your forgiveness, but know that I never meant you harm, I have only ever desired your happiness.”  
  
Barsad's hand reaches out for his own, and there is a longing on his face. Bane does not understand how he feels. Everything is strange in his mind, the knowledge that this man has never met him and yet fought for him. He wonders what would have happened, if he had only known, if he would have saved him, if he would have climbed down into the pit for him and raised him out of it. He pulls his own hand back quickly, squeezing it into a protective fist. It is a foolish thought. This man nearly killed him, and now he is trying to sway him into something, what that is Bane does not understand, but he is not a priority. He long ago gave himself over to Talia, and now that he is out of hell nothing changes that.  
  
There is a flash of pain on Barsad's face, but he does not reach for him further. His hand drops down to his lap and he nods slowly. “I understand. It will be difficult to avoid one another, but I will do what I can to make it so.” With that, he stands and rubs his hands against his sides slowly, leaving with a final nod towards him. Bane still feels strange, but now it also feels like something inside of him hurts.  
  
It is a slow recovery, a painful one. He cannot have the IV out of his arm for more than a moment or the pain flares up in him so quickly that it blinds him to all else, searing down his spine and across his face, but the medication makes him hazy, it makes time travel strangely. One moment Talia will be beside him, and then he will blink and she will be gone and he is alone. It makes him question his surroundings more than ever.   
  
There are more surgeries, and some bring relief, but most bring pain with the promise of better recovery later. Always, he is wrapped under the bandages. Even when it is time to feed him, they simply slide the tube past them. He is grateful for it. He does not wish to remove them, not to even touch them. He knows what he is under there, and it is nothing that he once was. If it were his decision, it would never be seen again by any, most of all by himself.  
  
He grows stronger, though, and with it his body itches for movement. He is used to being closed in and in one place, but not completely mobile. One restless morning, he manages to swing his legs over the side of the bed. There should be someone there, in case he falls, but he only trusts Talia, and if he should fall even in his weakened state he knows that she is too small still to help him, regardless, so he presses on alone.   
  
The floor is cool and slick under the heels of his feet, and he spends a long time simply sitting there, staring forward at the curtains across the room, the chair positioned under them. Talia has sat there often, and sometimes he has found her sleeping there. It is the curtain that attracts him, though, the small sliver of light peeking out from it. With it, he remembers the faint rays of light that would sometimes fall on his face in the pit. He did not see the sun when he was taken out of it, he only woke up in this bed, and he wonders if he can see it now, if he can finally see what the sky looks like.  
  
It is that thought that makes him grip the metal pole holding his IV as tightly as he can. It is what makes him put weight onto his feet for the first time in many months. His legs nearly collapse beneath him. It feels strange to be on them, each small step stretching out the already seizing and cramping muscles until he is halfway there and there is no turning back. Each step he is both weaker and stronger, until he is finally near collapsing onto the chair, feeling it creak under him at the sudden weight. He takes shaky breaths, working to regain his senses, his back and lungs feeling as though they are burning from even such a small exercise.  
  
When he feels recovered enough, his fingers brush against the clean cotton of the curtains. It always strikes him, how everything is so very clean here. He jerks them aside in a quick motion and he is nearly blinded by the beauty of what he sees. It is so blue, so bright and clear. He closes his eyes for a moment and lets himself merely feel the warmth against his face.  
   
"It is a beautiful day," a quiet voice speaks out, and his eyes snap open. Barsad is in the doorway with Talia. He has seen little of the man, only in passing as he brings Talia to him or picks her up. He has not spoken to Bane since their one sided exchange. Bane tries to forget his existence. It is easier said than done when he sees how his string sways lightly in the air whenever the other man walks past the door.  
   
"Bane, you walked!” Talia is excited as she runs to his side and wraps her arms around him. "You are growing so much stronger again."  
   
Bane slowly wraps an arm around her, and they look out the window together in silence for a few moments. He knows that the sight is just as exhilarating for her, that it will never stop being something magical to behold for both of them.  
   
It is several moments before Bane realizes that they are not alone. Barsad has not left, and he casts his glance back at him. Talia tugs at the hem of his sleeve.   
   
"Barsad has brought you a present." She says it sweetly, innocently. Far too innocently. She does not know of their strings, but it is clear there is animosity between her two friends and she would like very much for it to end.  
   
"It is not—not like that," Barsad interjects. "Talia merely said you must be bored." He holds up a small flat rectangle, and Bane realizes as he sets it on the bed for him that it is a book. It is thoughtful, but useless. He has seen the books in the hospital. They are in another language, not Arabic, and though he can speak many of the languages spoken in the pit, he can only read Arabic. It is what Talia's mother taught him, and he does not think she knew more than it, either.  
   
Talia seems to sense his thoughts as she often does. "It is an Arabic book. I told him that is what you would like, and we searched for it together."  
   
Interest returned, he casts his eyes on Barsad in suspicion. If he is trying to buy himself into good graces, then it is a futile move, but it has been a long time since he has been able to read. The small worn-through books that he had been able to keep away in the pit had been among the first of his possessions to go, part of his punishment for his crimes against the pit.  
   
"It is nothing. It is from Talia, truly," Barsad demurs quickly, and he is gone from the room just as quickly. Talia purses her lips in displeasure at the retreat.  
   
"He spent many hours searching for it," she says quietly. Bane guides her back to the window to watch more with him, but his eyes glance every so often to the thin leather-bound book resting on the bed for him.  
   
Others come with it. Bane has read none of them, and he devours them voraciously. They appear when he needs them the most: a book of stories about a man named Sherlock Holmes the day he is guided into walking up and down the hall until he is exhausted; another about a young girl who goes on an adventure and eats and drinks things she should not on the day that his jaw is finally unwired and they make him exercise it, talk even though it brings more pain than the morphine can handle, though to his own ears he sounds strange, his voice nothing like it was; a story about a journey under the sea, something he has never even seen before, on the day the bandages are finally removed and he must see and be horrified by what he has become. That one is almost thrown against the wall in his anger, but he could not bring himself to abuse the treasure in such a way. They are carefully stacked beside his bed and thumbed through for hours, read and reread.   
   
They are his only comfort when they attempt to ween him from the morphine.  He will not allow Talia near him for it. His body is in agony and there is no solace. He feels as though he is dying once more. It is not the pain of addiction, his body simply cannot handle all that it has been through. It can only endure so much, and even healed, his back and face will forever bring him an unspeakable pain. They finally must hook him back to the IV, and a part of him fears that he will be tied to it forever, that he has simply traded one prison for another one, this one cleaner, with a better view, but just as trapped. 


	5. Chapter 5

Barsad smiles quietly as he swings Talia around in the hallway. Truly, most would see her as too grown for such a child's game, but she is so serious, so grave, that anything that makes her nearly shriek in delights, elicits a giggle, he will do until his arms fall from his body.

They have been here some time, and Barsad is surprised that it is being allowed. They are far from the League, only a handful remaining behind. He volunteered to be among them. He should not have. It would have been wiser to go home, for himself and for Bane, but Talia refused to leave and begged for him to stay with her.

Their leader is here. Not always, he comes and goes, and Barsad realizes without it being said that he is being entrusted with Talia's safety, just as he also understands without it being said that Bane is being treated as he is because of what he has done for Talia, what he has sacrificed. And it was a great sacrifice indeed. He had seen some of the extent of it one night as he slipped into the room while Bane had slept, intending to deliver another book, not wishing to disturb him during the daytime. 

Barsad had not realized that Bane had been instructed to sleep with his wrappings off, to allow the area to breathe. It is grievous. Barsad had never seen so much of a face marred, his lips gone in places and curled strangely in others. His nose and jaw were half eaten away by rot and partly reconstructed. Even doing everything they could, the doctors only had so much to work with. Barsad could not imagine someone looking less whole, and his heart ached for him.

It has been hard, to keep away. There are times when he simply paces the halls, when he wishes to go inside of his hospital room and see him. It is a foolish desire, though. He has failed him, he nearly slaughtered him, there is no reason for Bane to ever wish to see him, and it is something he must remind himself of again and again.

Barsad is deep in thought when he hears footsteps. He stops mid-swing and slowly sets down Talia who smooths her windblown hair quickly, dipping down to greet her father with a quiet bow of her head. It is clear there is a cautious bond between them, and Barsad hopes to see it grow in time, but for now it seems as if neither knows how to treat one another yet. He would offer advice, but it is not his place, and truly he would not know what advice to give.

“Sir.” He nods with Talia, bows respectfully as always, and he is surprised when Ra's does not simply wish to gather Talia from him. He wants to speak to him alone, in private. It takes some doing. Talia of course wants to listen in, but he convinces her to go see Bane on her own, and the idea makes her perk up with interest. Ra's watches as she walks down the hallway, waiting until she rounds a corner to speak with him further.

Ra's is quick to cut to the chase, and Barsad feels uneasy as their eyes meet. “This man, Bane, as my daughter calls him. He will never live a life without pain. It will control his body unless something is done.”

“What can be done?” The news is abrupt, and yet somehow he knew it. He has heard of the attempts to take him off of the morphine, and how poorly they worked. He feels his stomach twisting, and he does not understand why this is being shared with him of all people.

“There is something being worked on, a device that can perhaps brace the pain, deliver the medication he needs on a constant basis but that will allow him movement. It is a prototype. Nothing like it has been fashioned before. ”

Barsad wants to know why it is not being tried yet, but it seems crass to speak out of turn, and so he waits for Ra's to continue.

“It is a mask, and it will cover most of his face. With it comes risks, and the knowledge that it will most likely be attached to him for the rest of his life. It is your job to speak to him about it.”

“Me?” Barsad is too surprised to remember respect. “Why should I be the one?”

“Because he is your string.”

Barsad stills, shocked. He does not understand how their leader has come to know such a thing. He has told no one, certainly not Talia who would not understand, who is convinced that the strings are bad. On many days he wonders if she is not correct. 

At his look, Ra's al Ghul merely shakes his head, as though disappointed by his surprise. “Did you think no one saw you take his hand as he was raised from the pit? You remained here, and when you pass by his room your eyes always go to your hands. You do a poor job of hiding it.”

“I did not know, when I volunteered. It will never be something that keeps me from the mission.” Barsad swears it with a clenched fist, so tight that he can feel the yarn biting into his finger.

“Of course not.” Ra's’ tone is as much a reassurance as it is a deadly promise. “It will be used as any other tool in the League. You will convince him that he needs this mask to survive.”

“He hates me, and perhaps he does not wish to survive.” He says the last part quietly, well aware of the ache in his chest at the thought. He does not understand why Ra's cares either way, beyond Talia's sake. The man never goes to see Bane.

“He must. There is strength in him that will not be wasted.” It is all their leader says before he turns away to leave Barsad alone in the hall, bewildered, unsure how he will ever be able to speak to Bane about such a thing.

The issue is pushed when it arrives in his room the next morning. He has been staying with a family who is dedicated to the League’s cause, though he is only there to sleep, spending his days with Talia at the hospital, training or attempting to scout out more books that might keep Bane occupied. The mask is in a strange box, a medical type case with odd flat vials carefully nestled in beside it. They are hardly noticed when compared to the mask itself.

It looks like something from a nightmare. He wonders what possible purpose it could have, for it to look as such. Part of him knows. He suspects in his heart that Bane is being used, that Ra's sees him as a tool to strike fear into others once he is indoctrinated. He does not understand why Ra's has chosen him. Perhaps it is the stories Talia has told him, of Bane's ruthlessness when it came to her protection. Perhaps Ra's wishes to use his own child to keep Bane as a monster on a leash. The idea turns his stomach. He reminds himself that the world is at war, and in that war there are sacrifices to be made.

The coils and metal grate of the mask seem almost unnaturally cool when he runs his fingers down them. There are instructions in the lid of the box. He wonders if he is expected to put it on Bane himself. Clearly they assume too much of him. They assume Bane will even speak to him, that he will not kill Barsad for trying to do the same to him in the pit. He snaps the lid to the box shut with a resounding click. He has been given an order, and he will obey it even if his skin might prickle unnaturally at the thought of going to see Bane.

He makes certain Talia is busy. She wants to visit, but he tells her to go to the library with one of the other remaining members, to fetch another book. When he tells her that it is a mission, that she will get to deliver it to Bane herself the next day, all thoughts of fuss are forgotten and she takes off to complete her task.

The beating of his chest is something he can feel throughout his body, as though it is pounding in his ears as he opens the door to Bane's hospital room. He is there. Bane is always there unless he is being encouraged to walk and move around while he holds onto the pole from which his IV bag hangs. He is awake and sitting at the window. It is where Barsad sees him the most when he sends Talia in to him. He cannot understand how Bane must feel, to see the sun and the sky after living his entire life underground, and yet he is still not in it. He is still just a spectator.

He clears his throat, but it is not needed. Bane has acute senses for one so injured. Barsad suspects it is a survival skill of the pit. He is already turning towards him, and when Talia is not there, Barsad can see him still, confused, suspicious.

“She will visit later today, I am certain.” He murmurs it as an apology, and the suspicion on Bane's face grows into wariness. Barsad takes the box out from under his arm and holds it before him. “I have been sent to speak with you, on our leader's behalf.”

Barsad is sure that if it were feasible with the pain in Bane's face, he would snort. His own mouth comes dangerously close to ticking into a smirk. They are both well aware that he is the last person who should be sent to speak on anyone's behalf. Still he walks inside, closer, and Bane watches him as he slides the only other chair in the room over to sit across from him, settling the box in his lap carefully. His fingers trace over the lid slowly, contemplatively.

“I know I said I would not speak to you, but I have been given a task, and I must complete it. I have been told, about the attempts to take you off of the morphine.” He almost stops there at the displeasure in Bane's eyes that the fact he cannot beat out his own body is known to Barsad, but he continues on. “Our leader has had others working towards a solution. It is here. A contraption that has been built for you to wear. It is my understanding that it will release analgesic and still allow you move around.”

Bane's eyes change at that, filled with interest. His voice is strange when he speaks. It is the first time he has heard it.

“Show me.”

Barsad nods and lifts the lid of the box. Bane is quiet as he looks into it, and Barsad glances down to see that his fingers are restless, opening and closing, fidgeting against his legs as he looks into the box for a long time and does not speak. He reaches out to touch over it, unintentionally echoing Barsad's actions of the morning before he draws his hand back. 

His voice is full of a quiet bitterness when he finally speaks. “Do you find it only fitting, a monstrous device for a monster?”

“You are not a monster, Bane.” Barsad says it quickly, more vehemently than intended, and he does not quite know what he is doing when he sets down the box and places his hands over Bane's on his lap. Bane does not either. He is still, and Barsad can feel the tightening of his hands and tendons under his own.

Barsad, though, he feels caught up in it. He cannot help but look to see how their strings intertwine, how the delicate knots over their pinkies touch and he can feel Bane's as clearly as he can feel his own. He feels Bane's eyes watching them both, and his fingers splay apart slowly, as if he cannot keep them together anymore. Barsad understands because he cannot stop himself from lacing their fingers in response, their string winding between their fingers as he feels the still too slender bones of Bane's fingers. In that fragile grip is part of what he had given up as something he was not worthy of a lifetime ago, and now Barsad finds himself unable to let go.

He swallows harshly. His breath is too loud, his heart beating a tick too fast. "You are not a monster, Bane." He repeats the words softly, with a force to them, willing the other to believe it. "And this mask is only a tool. It will not make you into one."

Bane's hands jerks back as if their touch is too much and Barsad has scorched his fingertips. His own are tingling. He waits for anger, for overstepping, but Bane only looks tired, so tired of fighting the world, and Barsad's very soul aches for him.

"It is not a choice you need to make right away. You may take your time," he says finally and it is, for the most part, a lie. They both know it. Bane has some time, yes, but a decision will need to be made and soon. The League has already spent so much time here, and Ra's will not wait forever even if it means upsetting his daughter. It is harsh but fair, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, and those rules apply even to his blood.

Bane takes the mask from the box and holds it in his hands, eventually. He is quietly contemplative, and Barsad wishes they were close enough that he could understand his thoughts. He has heard of some strings being so close that they can hear one another thinking, can feel them beyond the tugs to their string. He had always been in awe of such ideas as a child. Now, though, he must use observation to understand Bane. His steely gray eyes go from the mask to the window and back again. Barsad truly should leave, he has said what needs to be said and completed his mission, but instead he sucks in a breath of air and leans forward, pushing at Bane's personal space but not violating it as deeply as the touch of their hands earlier.

“Bane, will you come outside with me?”

The offer startles him. Clearly, no one has offered it. It would not even cross Talia's mind, she is still a child, happy when her protector is there and wanting him to be pleased as well, but not old enough to understand his desires.

“When?” It is asked cautiously, as though he expects there to be a hidden restraint, perhaps on the condition that he dons the mask, but Barsad could not care less. It is a blasphemous thought that crosses his mind, that if Bane does not decide to wear it, if he remains in this hospital forever, that perhaps it would not be such a terrible thing to remain with him.

Barsad dares to smile at him, a small curve to his own lips as he looks at Bane's covered face. Only his eyes are visible as he watches with some suspicion, but mostly with a deep longing. “Right now.” He cannot keep the mischief out of his tone, as if they are two young boys planning to sneak away for the evening. It affects Bane, his eyebrows rising in surprise when there seems to be no catch and his eyes change before they cloud again.

“I do not think I could make the walk.”

“It is not far. I know you can.”

“Do you?” Bane says it like a challenge, and Barsad laughs quietly. He suddenly feels too good not to.

“I do. I have never met a stronger man.”

Bane looks at him in surprise, disbelief, but he has never been more honest. Never before has he seen a man who has endured all that Bane has and lived. He doubts that he ever will again.

His fingers curl slowly and flex as Bane studies his hand for a moment. “What is it like out there?”

“Right now? Raining most likely, horrible. You will love it.” Barsad promises, and he is treated to the slow nod of Bane's head, his hands gripping the chair sides carefully as he slowly pulls himself up. Barsad wants to help, wants to put an arm around him and guide him out himself, but boundaries have already been pushed so far today that he only watches vigilantly, waiting for any show that Bane is too tired to continue as he takes hold of the pole holding his IV drip and slowly walks for the door.

It is a slow walk. Barsad finds it easy to be patient, though, only listening to the forced heavier breathing as Bane moves through the halls. “There is an open area not far from here,” he tells him. “Listen, you can hear the rain from here.”

Bane hears it and he stills. Barsad wonders what rain in the pit was like. Rare, so rare he'd imagine that Bane saw very little of it, perhaps he felt none of it or perhaps a drop or two trickled down from the mouth of the pit and hit his cheek. Now, he closes his eyes a moment and the sound seems to give him a new energy. Barsad is happy to open the door to the small open garden. It is a slightly wild area, clearly not kept up as well as it could be, but Barsad has enjoyed sitting in it to clear his mind, has gone to it for early morning meditations knowing he would not be disturbed. 

Bane's fingers touch the edge of the door, and it is as if he is nearly afraid to take another step further, to be so exposed to the sky. Barsad boldly touches the tips of his fingers.

“Come along,” he coaxes quietly, and that little push seems to be all he will need. Bane's bare foot touches onto the wet pavement and he is standing beside him, the rumble of thunder overhead as rain drips down onto them. Bane closes his eyes, and Barsad cannot help but think it is as if he is being baptized, born into something new as weariness leaves his face, as the bandages are quickly soaked but he makes no motion to move. Neither of them do. Bane does not sit, they merely stand in silence and feel the rain wash them both. It is some time before either of them realize that they have had their hands clasped together in that moment, sharing it.

Neither pull away. They only stand together in silence until Bane's legs threaten to collapse beneath him. Barsad keeps a steady grip on his hand as they walk back to the hospital bed. Barsad finds him a towel, dry clothes, offers to change the bandages quietly but it is rejected. He scrubs through his own hair briskly and it licks up wildly in all directions. He pauses when he hears a strange sound.

Bane is laughing quietly, laughing at him. It is one of the most pleasant sounds that has ever graced his ears, and he must fight back the grin on his face. He leaves his hair wild and walks back over to the bed.

“Do you need help changing?” He does not mean it as anything more than a genuine offer and he is glad it is taken as nothing more, though it is rejected.

“I will manage.” He hesitates a moment before he tilts his head. “Thank you.”

Barsad lingers. He has not felt so whole in many years, and he does not want such a feeling to end even though he can feel the chill of the air conditioned room sending a shiver through his body and soaked clothing. Perhaps Bane feels the same way, because he says nothing when he stays, quietly brings a chair over to the bed, and averts his gaze as Bane changes into dry clothing.

“Have you enjoyed the books?” He makes sure his hand is not damp as he reaches to touch the small stack.

It begins a hesitant conversation of literature. Barsad feels as if he is a child when faced with Bane's intellect, his ability to dissect each story even when it is based on a world he has barely even seen.

“You are hard to keep up with,” he finally admits when he has been lost on more than one occasion. “You are wise, you see things that others would not.”

Bane seems surprised. Barsad wonders if any have called him wise before, or if he was considered a mindless brute. He is still so slender now, though weight is slowly growing on his frame. Talia has told him how massive Bane once was, how he was one of the feared men in the pit, never attacked alone, only as a group was he bested by them. They continue the conversation, and Barsad feels himself settling in despite the cold, his eyes growing heavy even as he listens as closely as he can, not wanting to seem rude but feeling more comfortable in this small cold room, covered in damp clothes, than he has since he left his mothers' home.


	6. Chapter 6

Bane's voice trails off slowly as he notices Barsad's breathing grow heavier. His brow tics up slightly when he realizes that the other man has fallen asleep in the chair. He supposes that perhaps he should be offended that he dropped off in the middle of their conversation, but he only watches him quietly, the soft rise and fall of his chest through his soaked clothing. There are drops of water at the edges of his sleeves, a small puddle under his boots, but his face is relaxed. He looks content, a quiet peacefulness taking over his features. Bane is almost jealous, except there is a small part of him that wonders if he is the cause of it.

He shakes his head at such a whimsical notion. Still, the day has been strange. The box Barsad brought with him that morning is settled on the small table beside his bed. He touches over it and pictures what he will look like with such a contraption strapped to his face at all times. Barsad said it would not make him a monster, and it is a kind notion, but Bane is not so certain it is true. Still, what can be done? He will not let Talia be taken away from him. He will do all he can to stay in the sun with her. He will wear the mask, he will let himself be trained like Talia's father wishes for him to be, and he will follow his teachings.

He opens the box and studies it again, glancing over at Barsad as he sleeps. Perhaps it is not such a terrible thing if this man is with him, as well. Their string loops lazily over the mask as he runs his fingers over it, and he wonders how such a thought could come to be within himself, wonders when he stopped holding such a hatred in his heart for those strings attached to him. 

He looks over again, assuring himself that Barsad is sleeping, as he pulls one of the vials free, works it into the mask carefully after some fumbling, figuring out how such a thing is done. He hears a soft hiss as it attaches, as a vapor is slowly released, and he sets it down, unwraps his own bandages and lays them to the side, exposing his face. He pulls the IV from his arm, feeling only a pinch as the needle drops down beside him on the bed, and he works the mask over his marred features. 

It is a perfect fit. He secures it, feels how it braces his face in different areas. When he breathes slowly, a strange medicinal scent fills his nostrils and clouds his lungs. It is not unpleasant, but it is different and so he breathes cautiously, waiting to see if the pain will come back without the morphine drip. It does not. There is only the low hiss of his mask, and he feels his brain unclouding. Whatever analgesic is in the mask allows him to have clearer thoughts than the IV did, and he is certain the bracing of his face will allow for clearer speech. He tells himself that becoming a monster is a small price to pay to remain with her, but he still does not go over to the mirror in the bathroom, not wishing to see for himself. When he is certain the mask is truly not going to fail, he relaxes, looks over to Barsad and sees how he is shivering while he sleeps. It is an afterthought to drape one of the blankets from the bed over him before he lies back for his own sleep.

He wakes to a wet cough, to Barsad sitting up sharply though his eyes looked dazed. It takes a moment for Bane to focus, unused to the feeling of the mask, and it momentarily disorienting him. “Have you made yourself sick?”

Barsad's head snaps towards him in surprise. He sounds like an entirely different man. He does not feel the ache in his jaw when he speaks, and it is a blessing. He waits for Barsad to cringe back at the sight of him, but he only breaks into a coughing fit, his hand flying up to his mouth as he doubles in the chair.

“I am fine.” He tries to be dismissive, and Bane shakes his head.

“You need to change your clothing. It is still wet.”

The statement gets a bleary nod, and Barsad stands stiffly, clearly aching as he rubs his hands over his face. Nothing is said about the mask, not one word, and Bane finds a small comfort in that. Talia is different. Her small eyes widen at the contraption on his face, and she holds onto a small book more tightly in her grip. It is explained, though, and after a moment he is relieved to see how her eyes light up, how she nearly jumps into his arms and places the most delicate of kisses to the cold tubes of the mask.

“It makes you better, but it is cold against my mouth.” She rubs her lips and Bane holds her, glancing over to see Barsad standing in the hallway to watch them. He almost calls him into the room, but Talia is holding out the book for him proudly, and the moment is forgotten. With the mask, he recovers faster. He feels more able to move around, and he knows that it is time to move on. Talia's father comes. He gives him a task, to find a flower. Bane has never seen a flower himself, and he still feels weak, but he will not fail in this task. Barsad is there in the morning of their departure. He holds out a pair of gloves for him quietly. When Bane furrows his brow, he explains.

“You have not seen snow. It is a dangerous and tricky thing, but you are strong. I know that I will see you at the top of the mountain.” He hesitates a moment, and his hands do not seem to know what to do with themselves. Bane understands such a problem. His own are fidgeting in response, and it seems only reasonable for their hands to meet, for their fingers to intertwine for a small moment.

“Will you train with me?” Bane cannot help but ask the question that is on his mind. It feels as though since they have spoken that it has sealed their unspoken fate, set into motion an unstoppable momentum that he had thought impossible before. Now, when he sees this man, he wants to touch, to hold, and yet he keeps away still, only allows this, their hands, their strings and knots to press together. It is an intimacy that fills him with trepidation, and yet it soothes a part of his jaded soul.

“I will. You will defeat me easily, soon enough,” Barsad tells him, and he wonders if such a thing is true. Barsad is small, but he can see the strength in his movements easily enough. He is wise enough to know that not all strength comes with shows of power and bulk. He only nods, and Barsad squeezes their hands together before he leaves. Bane is alone then, standing in the now empty hospital room for a long contemplative moment before he takes up his pack and begins his own journey alone.

Barsad was not lying. The snow is the devil that cuts him to the bone. He is grateful for the gloves, can barely feel his own extremities even with them on, but he travels onward. He is unsure how he is still moving, he only knows he cannot stop. The slow, pained walks in the hospital are nothing in comparison. He found the flower hours ago, tucked it safely into his coat, and has been trying to complete the journey, but this walk is endless and if he pauses for even a moment he will be lost. He wonders if that was the plan all along, to give him a task that will end him, to make his fate something brought onto him by himself. It is a bitter thought as he moves through the thick snow.

Finally, finally he collapses back against the rock face of the mountain, his lungs burning with ice, and there is simply no way for him to move another step. His mind is willing and so frustrated with his body, that it is still something he does not command like he once did. He feels like he has failed her, and that still is not enough to force his feet into motion. He closes his eyes and feels a wave of bitterness as he blocks out the sun from his view.

His fingers are so numb that he does not realize it at first. Perhaps it had been there all along and he had been so focused that he had not noticed. But he feels it now, a gentle plucking on the string that he now knows he shares with Barsad. At first, old memories are stirred up, and he feels his ire rise. He tugs it back in annoyance, but then it is repeated, and he cannot help but think of Barsad in the rain, of quiet conversations and their hands laced together. 

Bane is unsure if the pulls are to check on him or to encourage him, but they do both. He tugs his string once more before letting it go. Barsad is there, and he is waiting for him with Talia. They both expect him to complete this, and it strikes him in his heart what a miserable thing indeed it would be to fail either of them. He feels the aches in his feet shift as he lifts one boot back up out of the snowdrifts, and he begins the path again.

By the time he reaches the temple, it is night, and the monumental building looks as though it is a hulking shadow, crouched against the mountain side and waiting to devour him. It only seems fitting. He can barely drag his feet as he steps into it. It is warm, at least, though, and the snow melts from his boots as his sides heave, as he drags more and more chemical into his body to fight back the pain that such a journey has cost him.

Ra's Al Ghul stands before him, as though he has been waiting there the entire time, and suddenly he is flanked by others who appear from the shadows and the ceilings. Bane cannot help but glance at the men surrounding him, wondering which masked face is Barsad. It is cheating, but he follows his string with his eyes and soon it leads up to a pair of deep blue eyes, stony and staring ahead, not meeting his own.

Bane admires the determination there before he is attacked, Ra's shouting commands and attacks at him. It is a confusing thing. He can fight, but he is weakened greatly, and the brawls he was a part of in the pit had nothing to do with finesse and everything to do with brute force, with snapping a neck or bashing a head in before moving onto the next man. This is elegant and yet still brutal. He is left on the floor feeling broken and more battered than before.

“You have much to learn,” are the only words Ra's Al Ghul leaves him with as the others disappear with him as if they were smoke.

All but one.

Barsad tugs down his mask and crouches down, touching his shoulder hesitantly.

“Is it always this way?” Bane cannot help but ask, wondering if this welcoming was designed especially for him.

“No, usually there is none willing to drag the tyro to their room.” There is a glint in his eyes, and Bane must close his own and chuckle quietly, his hand resting on his chest as his lungs work to draw in air.

“I felt you.” He says it quietly as he feels Barsad's hands under his arms, the grunt of effort it takes to drag him down the hall.

“I felt you, as well, and you are too heavy, ox.”

“Then leave me on the floor.”

“I might, still,” Barsad threatened. “You are lucky it is not far. Besides, there is someone waiting for you.”

Barsad lets go of his arms so that he can slide open a wooden door, and there is a gasp heard. Suddenly Talia is on top of him, and he uses the last reserves of his strength to wrap his arms around her. She holds onto him tightly, and he can feel her warm breath against his neck. She shivers from how cold he is but she holds tight.

“I was worried.”

“Worry not, habibti.” he whispers, and he is helped into the room, stumbling onto a pallet and sighing out when he can feel the heat of a small brazier thawing him more. Talia settles into his lap with great pleasure, and she peeks at the blue flower he has obtained, twirling it between her fingers.

“Do you know what it is for, Barsad?” She looks over to him, eyes lit with curiosity.

“I do. It is the same for all who obtain it, but I cannot tell you.”

“I want to find one, too.” She tucks the flower back into Bane's coat, and her lips are set into a thin, determined line.

“Your father will teach you without it,” Barsad tells her, and Bane can see her displeasure at the thought, that she is being sheltered from what she now considers a rite of passage being denied to her. She settles, though, and Barsad brings him food, something he eats with a few moments of privacy. He helps him change the medication, as it is easier with two pairs of hands if he does not wish to completely remove the mask. Talia is soon asleep against him as he reclines back on the pallet. He is surprised when Barsad settles down onto the one beside him.

“It is... a shared room,” Barsad explains quietly, his eyes down.

“It is your room,” Bane guesses easily enough, and Barsad nods slowly.

“Beginners are usually placed in group rooms, but I thought that this might be preferred, for privacy.” He moves to sit up. “I can leave, go there myself, if it is better.”

Bane is careful not to jostle Talia when he reaches out to touch his arm. “It is generous for you to share it. Thank you.” It settles Barsad, and he lies back down beside them, curling up to sleep. Bane finds himself watching them both breathing before he lets exhaustion claim him.

He is woken by a light tug on his jacket. It is dark, only coals left in the small brazier, though the room is still warm. Talia is peeking up at him in the dark.

“I need your gloves, friend.” She says it as if there is no room for arguments. He understands immediately what she means to do, and he shakes his head. Her eyes narrow. It is so seldom that he denies her something, especially now that they are together again.

“Give them!” she hisses out quietly, her eyes flicking towards Barsad, worried she has woken him.

“It is dark, little one. I understand what you wish to do, perhaps better than any other, but it is dangerous in the night.”

She looks so defeated in that moment, and yet still so fierce. She sits up on him, and Bane is struck by how she is growing so quickly. She is becoming a woman faster than he ever imagined, and he slides his hand into her growing locks, trying to imagine the downy softness that was once there but has now been replaced by a silky glide of waves.

“Wait until sunrise,” he finally says quietly. He knows her strengths. He knows that she has traveled the world on her own. This task is well within her capabilities, and he will not deny her it even if her father might try. It only proves how little her father understands her, still. 

Her face lights up as though the sun is already shining on it, and she nods her head sagely, accepting his compromise. When he wakes again at dawn, she is no longer in his arms, and he does not worry. Barsad is not the same. When he realizes what has happened, he is quick to pull on his coat.

“Our leader will cut out my tongue,” he bemoans quietly. “I was to be watching her.”

“She cannot be held back, Barsad. It is something I learned many years ago. You will not find her until she has completed the task, like I have. Do not doubt her.”

“It is not that—” He scrubs his hands over his face. “She is strong. I am aware of how strong she is, how she had to grow, but the mountains are harsh.”

“No harsher than the pit,” Bane points out as he sits up slowly. Barsad must relent the point.

“She will be back before the nightfall, and she will be holding a blue flower,” Bane promises quietly. He knows it in his heart.

He is right, but so is Barsad. Their leader is furious, and though Barsad takes the blame for himself, Bane can feel Ra's’ eyes on him as Barsad is harshly rebuked. If Talia had not shown up before nightfall, he is certain it would have been worse. She is covered in snow and a small cloak, the gloves taken from him traveling well past her wrists, and she is holding the blue flower in them. She walks into the temple and fearlessly stands in front of her father, holding it up without a word as she looks up to him.

He stares down at her in silence before he nods, dismissing her. Bane knows she would be disappointed that she is not attacked like he was, like he is sure others were before him. It is clear that Ra's Al Ghul cannot see her like simply another student, and if nothing is done, her own training will suffer. He shares the thought with Barsad, almost uncertain if it is too bold, but Barsad is nodding already as he slowly eats a bowl of oats.

“I have seen it, too, but what can be done?”

Bane eats with him, the mask pushed up enough for him to swallow down as large of a portion as he can before it becomes too uncomfortable and he must fix it back on his face. It has been several weeks since Talia's journey, and he finds his appetite to be endless, a frustration with the mask, but he still eats just every few hours, whenever he is done a training session, and he can feel the weight and muscle growing on him again. Even with the mask his body is beginning to feel like his own once more.

Talia is being trained, as well, but it is with kid gloves, Bane sees it and it is why he has brought up the topic with Barsad, now. She is better than such things. She needs the challenge. He can see the frustration in her eyes when a blow is not landed on her that could be, when she is not challenged as she should be when she is brought to the training rooms and her lessons end sooner than everyone else's. They do not push her, and it is as bad as caging her again, to not let her grow and flourish.

Bane takes another bite of his oats and looks at Barsad carefully. “You could teach her further.”

Barsad seems surprised by the suggestion, and shakes his head ruefully. “You are truly trying to have me beheaded. If I injure her in it, I am as good as dead.”

“You are skilled, skilled enough to know when to push and when to stop,” Bane points out. It is not meant as flattery. He finds himself watching Barsad often. He trains beside him. He is a hard sight to ignore, the subtle power in his limbs as he stretches and twists himself, the way the sweat gleams on his muscles after a session, and how his body is flushed red with exertion. Bane does not mean to watch, but at times he cannot look away. More than once Barsad has glanced over at him and Bane has felt a redness to his own cheeks that has nothing to do with exertion, and he busies himself with his own training.

Barsad is quiet for a moment, his finger tracing across his spoon before he speaks, “I suppose that there can be no harm in our sparring together. It is how one learns.”

Talia takes to the idea with a keen enthusiasm. Barsad does not go easy. Their first training, she is flipped and slammed into a wall. Her eyes widen in shock at the pain and how her breath rushes out of her as Barsad pins her down. Then, there is a glint of satisfaction in them. She demands to be taught how, herself. She limps from the training area that day with her head high, looking forward to her next session. Bane's own training is going well. He learns every new movement with a keen interest, and as his body rebuilds, he develops his own brutal style, mixing what he has learned from the pit and incorporating the more fluid motions of the league.

He avoids Ra's Al Ghul, not out of fear, but out of respect that the man does not wish to see him. He does not like how Talia must feel as though she is split between them, though. She is no fool, and she voices her displeasure often at how she feels Bane is being slighted by her father, how he is more than strong enough to complete the final test and yet it has not been given. He calms her. He cares only for her. Assures her that if he can remain in her presence and protect her still, then he does not care if he is considered a novice for the rest of his existence. 

“You are better than half of the men here already,” she argues quietly as she rests her head against his shoulder.


	7. Chapter 7

“Soon, he will be better than all of them,” Barsad says as he stokes the fire in their room. It is true. He had heard from Talia how massive in power her protector was, but it is another thing to see that strength regrowing before his eyes. He is slender no more; he is like a mountain. Barsad finds himself watching him perhaps more than he should, how his muscles begin to stretch his skin taut again over time, and there is a bulk to him that exhibits his power, how he is still fast, agile, but it is clear how much controlled force is being put into each fluid motion.

It is thrilling when they train together. He more often than not finds himself crushed under Bane's weight, and it stirs something sinful in him when it is coupled with Bane's heavy breaths, the glint of satisfaction in his eyes that he has conquered someone who, to Barsad's pleasure, he considers a worthy opponent. Training suits him well. It has put new life in him, to have purpose, and Barsad must remind himself to remember his place. To hold onto the fact that he is grateful for what he has been given but can expect no more from Bane than a growing pleasant companionship.

Still. His body is far from used to remaining celibate. It is an unspoken thing that brothers and sisters in the League will often go to one another for such needs. It is done without romantic attachment, a show of solidarity and a means to an end. He would not fault Bane for doing the same, though a part of him is secretly and selfishly grateful that he has seen no such interest arise in him. When the months pass on, when he is so close to Bane at all times, when it has finally been at least a year or longer since he has been touched intimately, he concedes that he is much more human than Bane.

“Where are you going?” Bane's voice is thicker with sleep and it is something Barsad finds rather charming when his guard has been let down enough that he falls into a deeper slumber. Not deep enough, unfortunately, as he has caught him in the act of carefully sliding open the wooden door to their shared room.

Barsad tries to think of a reason beyond his own body. He knows that if he simply says he must relieve himself that Bane might stay awake so that he is not awakened again by his return.

“I find myself unable to sleep. I am going to meditate.” He finally says, and it tastes bitter on his tongue to lie, but though they are not together he feels a sense of shame in himself that Bane is so easily able to disregard his urges while he cannot.

“I can go with you, if you would like.” Bane sits up slowly, and Barsad's hand stills on the door frame. It seems cruel to reject such an offer, and now he is caught. He will simply have to offer Kojo an apology later for his sudden no-show. If the price of waiting a little while longer to satisfy himself is to sit out beneath the stars with Bane, to feel the chill of the air deflected by the warm body beside him as they close their eyes and find a sort of peace together, well, it is a small price indeed, and Barsad is willing to pay it.

“I would enjoy that, thank you.”

It becomes not what Barsad would like to call a 'problem'. He has no such things when it comes to Bane's interest in him, but he is slowly coming to realize that he now has two very attached persons in his life... and that both of them are quite quick to notice when he is missing for any given length of time. They worry. They never say it, but it is clear in their eyes that when he is out of sight he is not out of mind. He supposes it must come from the pit, where they had to keep their loved ones as close as possible lest they lose them.

It makes any sort of extracurricular activities nonexistent. He cannot bring himself to tell either of them that he is going off to 'get laid', and any other activity one or both of them are happy to join in on, be it a meal, training, meditation, even simply going out into the snow for air.

“I have not seen much of you, friend,” a low voice is suddenly close to his ear as he dips down onto the mat and then pushes up on his palms to hold his stance, laid out on the mat and his head towards the sky. He nearly breaks it when he feels the suddenly friendly skim of fingers curving over his ass. A jolt of desire runs through him even as he snaps out Kojo's name in irritation. It only earns him a low, cheerful laugh.

“I have been busy.” He gives up for the moment and presses up to sit out on the mat, looking up at his brother.

“Busy, yes… busy with Bane?” 

“Yes, but not in the manner you are thinking.” He waves a hand, then is silent when Bane comes into the training area, his eyes sweeping across the room before he focuses on him. Kojo, of course, notices.

“Ah, perhaps more in the manner I am thinking than you'd like to admit, little brother,” Kojo whispers out in a hushed tone, and Barsad barely refrains from snapping his nose for calling him little and reminding him just how wrong he is. His hand draws up and Kojo breaks his gaze from Bane.

“He's good for you, you know. You seem happier with him here, and the little one. I'm glad for you.”

It is probably the only thing that save's Kojo's nose. Barsad only nods quietly and drops his hand. “Tonight.” He mutters the word, practically an order, but he is well aware that Kojo only finds his force with him in a shared bed entertaining. Indeed, he only arches a dark brow before he nods, leaving him when Bane walks over. He is surprised when Bane watches Kojo leave, when there is something written on his face that Barsad is not sure he understands. 

He wants to ask, but the room is filling and it does not seem like the proper place for personal questions, not when he sees Talia coming into the room and seeking them out. Bane trains with her, too, now. It is a beautiful sight when they attack opponents together, a deadly dance of force and grace. He watches them both before he joins them in matches, in stretches. Talia is quieter today, and they both notice it, how her movements are slower, as if she is cautious about how she bends.

Finally, Bane stops them and pulls her aside, into a more private area of the room. “Have you been injured recently, habibti? You are fighting as though you have been wounded, but I see no blood or bruise on you.”

Her face goes scarlet, something Barsad never sees, and suddenly he understands, feels a slight embarrassment himself because he knows he will have to explain it to Bane and most likely Talia, herself. It is not like he exactly remembers many details.

“Are you bleeding elsewhere, Ms. Talia?” He tries to phrase it as gently as possible, and when her eyes widen slightly, he knows that he has guessed correctly. Bane looks alarmed as Barsad feared, but he holds his hand up to quiet him. “It is a private thing, Bane. I will tell you about it later,” he promises. He supposes he should have expected it sooner or later. It seems to have come later for Talia than for most girls, but that is most likely a side effect of malnutrition in the pit.

“Where is she bleeding?” Bane demands, his tone urgent even if it is hushed as they walk to their room.

“Bane, hush!” Talia orders sharply, her tone higher with embarrassment, and she pushes at his hands when he tries to put them on her protectively. Barsad does what he can to hasten the trip back to their room.

He steels himself a moment, before, trying to think of how to explain menstruation to both of them, what he remembers of it, anyway. He almost laments being an only child at that moment. If he had a sister, this might have been easier.

“Females, when they grow, begin to turn into women. They have periods, once a month, where they bleed.”

“Bleed where.” Bane is impatient. All he understands so far is that Talia is bleeding and he cannot stop it. Talia pinkens, and were she not the sturdiest individual he knew, Barsad imagines she might run out of the room to spare discussing this with Bane. Finally, she steels herself and reaches over to place her hand on his.

“From my womanhood, Bane.”

“Oh.” Bane's tone is flat. “I do not understand why you did not simply tell me.”

“We cannot all be so bold about such things as you are, Bane.” She shakes her head but relaxes when Bane squeezes her fingers. Barsad tries to explain, about cycles, ovulation, Talia is embarrassed about all of the talk, Bane is more or less still concerned that Talia will be bleeding once a month and might experience discomfort with it, and yet it is out of his control.

“I cannot imagine that all women do this. Perhaps you are mistaken.” Bane's brow furrows and Barsad almost smiles at the mix of confusion and concern mottling his visible features.

“Most do. She will be just fine.” He nods towards Talia in reassurance and she looks relieved above all else that this is normal. Now that she knows, her embarrassment is gone and she is back to her usual steady composure, asking questions that he tries his best to answer, ascertaining for herself that there is no reason not to train now that she knows that she is not in some way sick or wounded. Barsad agrees, Bane is less certain but wishes her to be content.

It is only the awkward matter of asking one of the sisters in the league how and where they obtain certain hygiene products. He promises endless favors to Olivia if she will only just give them to Talia and explain their use. She agrees, finally, after he promises he will teach her better aim with his rifle. It takes some convincing on Talia's part to speak to her alone. She has not had much female interaction at all, not since her mother, he suspects, but she goes along with Oliver after a backwards glance at them both. Barsad barely refrains from slumping against the wall in relief as she rounds the corner of the hall.

He laughs ruefully when Bane's hand touches his shoulder. "Are you well?"

"Yes. It is just nothing I thought I would ever have to explain." He glances over and sees the concern in Bane's eyes, for him, and his belly warms.

"Thank you for it." Bane's eyes narrow slightly as he looks off at the wall. "I learned so little of this world outside of the pit that at times I am at a loss. You have been... A boon to us both."

Barsad ducks his head slightly. How is it that Bane manages to make him of all people shy, at times?

"It is nothing,” he reassures again, "I am happy to help. We are brothers now, are we not?" The last he asks with his tone trailing off uncertainly.

"I have not passed the League’s initiation," Bane points out calmly. "I am a brother to no one."

Barsad's lip curls in distaste. It is a sour subject by now, and is something that has made him lose a measure of respect for their leader.

"You are my brother, Bane." There is conviction in his voice, and Bane's attention turns back to him. After a moment, Barsad can see the slight crinkling around his eyes.

"Am I?"

"Always." His thoughts are caught up by Bane's sudden grip to his chin. He closes his eyes at the fond slide of his thumb through the bristle of his cheek.

"Very well. Brother."

 

"Your keeper let you out for the evening. Was it for good behavior?"

"You will be quiet or I will rip out your throat." The growl building in Barsad's chest turns to a grunt at the feeling of Kojo's tight grip on his prick through his clothing.

"You need it bad. I think you will save my throat until after, at least," Kojo mocks him playfully, and Barsad is forced to concede the point. He'll simply do it after. For now, he nearly rips at the zipper of Kojo's pants, causing it to click sharply in a protest that he ignores in favor of working out his cock, wrapping his hand around the warm, dark flesh.

The hall is secluded, well known for brief rendezvous for those who share rooms and don't wish to disturb the restful sleep of those beside them. It means that Barsad has no qualms with dropping down onto his knees on the cold stone, wastes no time in pursing his lips around the thick head of Kojo's cock to taste him. It earns a pleased, if surprised, groan.

“You never go to your knees first, Barsad. Thinking of your desires for someone else, friend?” Kojo only lets out a strained laugh as he says it glibly, not at all put off by the notion. A growl builds up in Barsad's chest and vibrates out of him. It only makes Kojo groan and fist a hand into his hair. Damn his perception.

“You know I don't care,” Kojo gets out before his hips begin to rock, his cock pressing heavy onto his tongue. He may not care, but Barsad does. He shouldn't be thinking about Bane now. It makes everything more complicated. He blanks his mind instead, sucks luridly at the tip of Kojo before he pulls back to pant, a line of saliva connecting them for a moment before it breaks. He mouths wetly over the length of him, tonguing across his balls, and holding him in place while he shoves his other hand into his own pants, nearly fumbling over his own cock. It has been so long, nothing more than a few quick personal sessions in the showers when he manages to get to them alone.

He is leaking already, the precome making his thumb streak across him wetly as he groans out. There is a low rumble of a growl over him, and he flicks his eyes up to meet Kojo's in reaction to it, the shiver it sends down his spine.

But Kojo looks confused by it, and suddenly he is out of his grasp, being shoved against the stone wall with a vicious snarl in the dark. Bane. Barsad leaps to his feet and wraps his arms around Bane's own as it is raised into a fist, ready to deliver a brutal blow to Kojo's face, a face that is widened with a rare confusion even as his training kicks in and he steadies himself to deflect the punch and retaliate.

“Stop this!” He yanks Bane's arm down and his head snaps over to look at him, his breath coming in heavy pushes through the mask, so rough he can see his chest rising and falling even in the dim light. Kojo is let go only so that Barsad’s arm might be snapped up, and he is dragged away, bewildered, and embarrassingly hard still. He stumbles, feels completely manhandled as Bane shoves him into the room. The wooden door shakes and vibrates with the slam he gives it. 

He is confused as to what exactly has Bane so upset. They are tied, but not intimate, and Bane has shown no interest in it. If he wishes to treat him like an object to be owned... Well, he feels some frustration build up in him at the thought. He wishes he could understand the rules to this strange relationship, and he backs himself against the wall, preparing for a fight from Bane, verbal or physical.

The last thing he expects is Bane's hand on his cheek suddenly, gentle, his eyes searing into his own with ferocity. “I will not let him harm you again.” It dashes away his annoyance with first confusion and then understanding of what Bane thought he saw.

“You think—Bane, no.” It is almost tempting for a fleeting moment to let him believe it to spare himself explanation, but he is no coward, and he will not take such a way out, ever, especially one that would paint Kojo in such a negative light. “He was not harming me.” He says it with a shake to his head and it is just as clear that Bane believes none of it.

“He was touching you. I saw him in the training room and did nothing. I did not protect you then, and he took advantage.” Bane's eyes narrow, as if there is no other possible alternative to what he has seen. It is then that Barsad realizes that to Bane, there is not. Why would there be? He has said himself so many times that he does not understand the workings of the world outside of the pit. Any sex he must have seen there would be at best an uncomfortable, humiliating experience, and at worst, pure torture.

“Bane,” Barsad chooses to be touched, not offended, that Bane came to rescue him. He is more than capable of defending himself, but at the same time so is Bane now, and would he not have come to his aid, if he thought the same? He touches the tops of his scarred-over knuckles, rubbing the marring with his fingertips. “It is not what you think. I was not in danger, I promise you.”

Bane's fingers dig into his cheek, not rough, but he is trying to understand. His brow is furrowed when he speaks finally. “Explain, then.”

He would possibly rather explain his talk with Talia about menstruation to Ra's Al Ghul himself than have to explain this.

But he had long ago told himself that he would do all he could to help both of them adjust.

"Will you sit with me?" he finally asks, and they settle together on Barsad's pallet, though Bane's muscles are still tensed, like he is tightly coiled up and ready to attack. When he spars, he looks so calm. This tension is a sign of how much what he has seen has upset him, and Barsad curses his body's selfish nature.

"What you saw between me and Kojo, it was not… it was agreed upon by both of us. He was not forcing his will.”

Bane's face looks pinched in confusion, his brows nearly knitted together as he speaks. "You owe him something, and you chose to repay it with your body."

He nearly laughs, but the situation is too serious. "No, Bane. It was done for mutual pleasure... I do not know what you have seen... I cannot begin to imagine it, but here, such things are done not just as displays of power, but for satisfaction, because it can feel good."

"It does not feel GOOD," Bane snarls out the last word with such a bitterness to him that Barsad's heart breaks in realization that is it certainly said from experience. He wants to ask, but that is not something he has any right to ask about. It makes sense, perhaps, why Bane has no interest in such things.

"It can. It can feel good when both people desire it," he argues gently, and Bane looks unsure if he should believe him, but Barsad has always been honest with him, and perhaps he realizes that.

"You truly desired that?"

"I did. It is an urge I feel, like hunger, and at times I wish to satisfy it."

"Hunger I understand, this I cannot. I have not seen any signs of you engaging in this before."

"I haven't since you have been here. I didn't exactly know how to broach the subject," Barsad points out ruefully. "It is considered a private matter for the most part, but we are connected and at first, before I realized you did not hold the same desires, I thought you might feel betrayed."

"Betrayed?" Bane is confused again.

"Because it is often done between strings," Barsad explains gently. Bane understands what he means after a moment, and any looseness in him is gone. His fists tighten and the thick muscles of his arms clench. Barsad lets his own slender fingers lightly touch his arm, a risk worth taking if he can show Bane he means no harm.

"I would never ask it of you, brother, and I would never attempt to force it."

Bane's eyes are distant, as though he is looking straight through Barsad and into his own past. His head finally dips down slowly, cautiously. "But you still wish it. So you went elsewhere, to someone you knew could provide what I cannot, and would not harm you with it... It was wise," he finally decides after some thought. "I will not trouble you with it again."

A small smile graces Barsad's lips when the tightness in Bane's arm finally loosens under his pressing fingers. "Thank you, brother, but please, never hesitate to ask me questions, I will always endeavor to explain them to the best of my ability. That is my pledge to you." He only hopes this open promise is not one he comes to regret.

The next time he plans to meet with Kojo, after a terse explanation to the other man over their last attempt, he tells Bane before he goes so he does not wonder where he is. The other man pauses in their meal and only nods, asking if Barsad will be back that night.


	8. Chapter 8

Bane's eyes are fixed on the back of Barsad's shoulders as he steps out of their room and lets the panel door slide shut. It is well after the sun has set, and he suspects without asking that Barsad will be going back to the secluded hallway for his rendezvous. He still doesn't understand how it is that Barsad can actually desire what he is leaving for, but he respects his decision, even when it leaves him with a strange feeling in his chest, the idea that Barsad is out with another, his smooth skin being touched by them.

The road to the acceptance of his care for Barsad, for one of his strings, has been a slow one, filled with rocks and other stumbling blocks—resentment, worry, fear—but time together has made him weather the journey. He has made a brother, and the thought of surviving this oft overwhelming world outside the pit without him by his side with Talia has become a dreadful thought indeed.

He almost wishes he could grant this desire for his brother, but the very thought… it brings up too many memories in him.

When he was a boy, he grew to hate his face. He knew it was pretty. The words were jeered at him luridly as he walked past different cells. Soon the word became something warped, something that filled him with dread in his gut to hear. It wasn't long until he was old enough that the doctor's vague overlooking was not enough to keep men at bay. He found out what it meant to be pretty in the pit. It hurt, and it continued to hurt him until he grew his body further, learned to fight, learned how to make the others find him too dangerous to risk. 

He thought he had put an end to such things forever. He had grown to be feared, a pretty face but a brutish body, deadly hands that would make others pay for any infraction. But after the mob had been robbed of its prize, they had swarmed around him and had proven that his past was not over. They had made him pay dearly, daily, until he was too used up to be of interest. That was when he had been allowed to drag himself off to die, where he had been found and reborn.

He tries for a fleeting moment to imagine Barsad touching him in such a way, not with pain as he said, but such thoughts he has no basis for, and they are quickly overrun by what he does know: the pain everywhere, the foul stink, the humiliation. It makes him unable to find his rest on his pallet, and he sits up slowly. He is used to another sleeping beside him now, being able to listen to and count each soft, sleepy breath. Now there is only the occasional pop of the dying coals.

He picks up the metal tongs beside the brazier and feeds it small lumps of coal, one after another, watching how the flames lick at them, and knowing that sleep will evade him until he sees that Barsad has returned back to their room without incident. 

Instead, he lets the time be used for meditation. It is perhaps the finest asset he has learned in his time in the League. It settles the feelings in him, allows him to examine them thoroughly, as though he is looking into another person's soul, and it even manages to calm the endless restlessness in his hands. They only seem able to still when he plants them on his thighs in a measured motion, begins the slow drawing of air into his lungs, each deep exhale forcing out those things in him he is trying to eschew before he enters his relaxed state.

Fortunate timing has the soft slide of their door reaching his ears as he quietly leaves his meditation, raising his head up to nod to Barsad. He looks disheveled, damp, like he has slipped off to the showers after to wash the sweat and sex from him. His blue eyes are little more than heavily lidded slits, just barely peeking out. They widen when he sees him sitting.

"It is late... Did you wait for me?" There is a flash to those barely blues, guilt.

"I only found myself unable to sleep."

"I am sorry it evaded you." His words are muffled as he drags his shirt over his head and plops down lazily beside him. Bane is torn between the same uneasy feeling in his chest of before and a smile when he sees how relaxed his brother seems. His fingers go to fix the damp, wild locks, and the other closes his eyes in response, leans into the touch.

"I am sure it will no longer."

But is does. They lay out beside one another on their respective pallets, and though Barsad is there, his breathing slowly steadying, he finds his brain too active to allow itself to be lulled. It is a restless night for him, and he privately hopes it will not happen again.

But it does. It is not every night, but it is enough that it drives him to distraction, wondering when Barsad will leave in the night and cause him to lose sleep over it. It is not Barsad's fault, it is his own, but it still rankles something in him whenever he sees him leave when he wishes that he would not, whenever he sees him come to their room in the dark of night. At times, when he has not had the opportunity to shower, the scent of what Bane now recognizes and comes to think of as 'sex' still reaches his nose past the mask, and he finds those nights to be the hardest to find sleep in.

Barsad perhaps notices, but he does not ask. He only lies beside him on his own pallet, apologizes for coming in so late and waking Bane. Bane wonders if he realizes or not that he never truly sleeps until he has returned to him. His eyes must wander down his body each night on his return, making sure he is whole before he can relax, not truly rest, but relax.

It is this night, though, that he notices a rough scratch trailing down Barsad's back. It is not as though his brother is not mottled with bruises and cuts, all of them are, but this is not one he recalls from training, and his eyes narrow as he follows it across his skin with his eyes. Barsad seems to notice it and twists his body around, chuckling softly. 

“I gave him back worse, brother. It is enjoyable in the heat of the moment,” Barsad assures him before he nearly throws himself onto his pallet with a contented sigh. Bane watches him breathing for a moment. There are questions in his mind about this, things that have run through his head each night when Barsad leaves him for this, but he is uncertain if he should ask, if he truly wants to know or if he is overstepping himself. But now he is reminded of his brother’s words of before, that he would answer his questions, and there is one in particular that turns over and over in his mind.

"Brother?" He says his name into the dark, and Barsad rolls over, seeming half into his dreams already but somehow still attentive.

“What is it?”

“Can you put into words how it feels?” He cannot stop his curiosity from burning into him, how Barsad looks content after it, made content by another, and that pang in his chest from before is back whenever he thinks such a thing.

Barsad yawns and his hand rubs over his face. "You would like to know, now? Of course you would," he laughs tiredly, "or you would not have asked."

"You do not have to share."

"No, no." He turns more, and Bane can see the glint in his eyes, mischief breaking through the sleepiness. "I am simply trying to figure out how to put it into words. Let me think... It is perhaps like a warmness, you can feel it when the other touches you, growing in your belly and straight to your cock, hotter and hotter, but it does not burn."

Bane would argue that, that does not sound particularly wonderful, but Barsad's words are raspy and pleasant as he speaks, and he makes it sound like it is.

"It tingles. Sometimes it feels as though it is too much," his lips twist with amusement, "and then you are bursting, feeling the pleasure of climax, but hopefully not too soon." He chuckles quietly at the thought.

"You make it sound good."

"It can be very good, if your partner knows what they are doing or are eager to learn, or if you are doing it yourself."

Bane, who had been reaching out without thinking to put his fingers against Barsad's arm, pauses his fingers midway as he sounds puzzled. "Yourself?"

"Ah, yes. Self-pleasure. Quite common.”

“If you can simply do it yourself, why would you go to him?” Bane stops, frozen by the unexpected venom in his own tone. It makes their eyes tic open wider together and Barsad is reaching to close the distance between them, lacing their fingers.

“You are jealous, that I went,” Barsad guesses, incorrectly of course, but he sounds surprised, perhaps concerned. He needs not be. Bane has done nothing to stop him from this, and he does not intend to start now.

“No. I simply do not understand.”

Barsad clearly does not fully believe him, and a feeling of annoyance prickles at the back of his neck.

“It is not always the same. Sometimes one misses the touch of another... besides, it is not as though I can simply pleasure myself in front of you at night.”

“You could.” He does not understand why he would not. He would prefer it to his going out for it, and the lack of sleep, and the turbulence in his mind that it has brought.

The sharp laugh that Barsad barks out cuts through the quiet air as he squeezes his fingers. “Bane, you are asking me to masturbate for you?”

Bane pulls his hand away firmly and rolls onto his back. “It is not what I was asking.” He does not even understand what such a thing would entail. He simply wishes Barsad would stay with him instead of going out. He closes his eyes to put an end to such a foolish conversation, nearly regretting his own questioning.

Barsad sighs softly beside him, and Bane assumes that is the end of it, and that they will rest for the night. But then the second sigh comes, this one softer, more breathy, not sleepy at all, and his eyes open again. “What are you—”

“You may watch, if you would like. I do not mind,” Barsad breathes out quietly. His voice has never sounded quite like this to Bane, like a quiet murmur that he can almost feel running over his own skin, in a way he would have thought would seem unpleasant, but is not, and it makes him turn his head slowly, unsure of what he will see.

Barsad's head is already turned towards him slightly, and he is smiling, encouraging. “You are lucky I did not completely wear myself out with Kojo. I kept in mind I had to have the energy to walk home.”

Bane can see the outline of his hand in the dark. It skims over his bare chest, his fingertips just barely touching his own skin. Skin that is scarred and pale, skin that Bane has felt warm beneath his palms countless times during training. Now it is touched slowly, and Bane imagines that it must tickle, how Barsad's fingernail draws a slow circle around his nipple. His bottom lip slides slowly between his teeth, and when he plucks at the peaked flesh, a low moan leaves him. It makes Bane's breath catch in response to it, not a moan of pain, or sickness, something else.

“Perhaps it is too much to tell you that I am thinking of you now, as I do this.” Barsad closes his eyes, and Bane wonders if in the darkness his brother is flushed over such an admission. He finds that he certainly is, the frank confession bringing a redness to his cheeks that he is glad is concealed by his mask and the dark.

“I—”

“Unless you truly wish me to stop... please do not speak, not at the moment.” Barsad says it and it manages not to sound like a command from his mouth when it is coupled with the pant forced out as he pinches his nipple roughly. It seems like it would be rude to speak after that, when truly there is no reason for Barsad to stop, not if he wishes to show him this. That is his choice.

That is what he tells himself, anyway, when Barsad's hands slide down his body, slowly dragging down his chest, over the dipping muscles of his abdomen, drawing attention to it before his hand cups over the swell in the soft cotton pants that he uses for sleep. He breathes out happily, it becoming a low hum as he sweeps his hand along the outline of his cock. His hips rock, and soon he is grinding against his hand, his knees bending, and his feet planting on the floor. It is almost hard to keep up with him, unsure if he should watch his face, his hands, his hips, or his cock as it is slowly revealed, hard as he yanks down the waistband of his pants and wraps his hand around it.

For now, he focuses on his throat, the low cry of pleasure that leaves it, how it arches back, vulnerable as Barsad’s head tilts, as his body curves up wantonly. He is 'pretty', but the word does not mean something terrible like it did in the pit, and perhaps even then it is not strong enough.

He is beautiful.

It stirs something in Bane that he does not quite understand. He does not want to touch, not quite, though his own hands feel restless as he watches, but he wants to see Barsad like this, how his eyes are closed and his lips parted. He understands what pleasure looks like when it is on his brother's face now, and it is something he continues to watch and enjoy as his hand jerks over his cock, faster, as he begins to squirm and a moan vibrates through his chest. It is like nothing he has seen before, nothing like the pit, nothing like what he experienced, and suddenly Barsad is crying out, his voice shaking as his body jolts, his come landing on his stomach and chest in thick ropes.

There is a shaky exhale that leaves Barsad, his eyes clenched shut tightly, and he is tensed up during his orgasm. After, though, it is like he has been unwound, lowering himself back down with a sigh, his hands fanning out lazily as he pants. The content look is back, but this time Bane does not mind it, enjoys it much more.

“Do you see?” The words are more mumbled, like he is sleepy once more. “It can be nice.”

“I see,” he agrees quietly. How can he argue with such visible proof? It can be nice, for Barsad, and he is happy for him for that. “I still do not see why you must go to another, then... if you can do it like this.”

“It would be in our room, Bane.” Barsad cracks an eye open and glances towards him. “Would such a thing bother you?”

“I would rather it.”

“Because the other bothers you more,” Barsad says, too perceptively. 

“It is your choice. I have nothing to do with it.” He has to remind himself of this fact nearly as much as he does Barsad.

“I see.” He reaches with his slender fingers, and Bane cannot quite see what he is doing, but suddenly he feels the gentlest plucking of the string at his finger. “I will satisfy myself with this, then.”

Bane says nothing, he only pulls on the string lightly, in return, before he settles back in to sleep, this time finding it with ease.

In the morning, Bane does not know how to read the small curve to Barsad's lips, the gentle touch to his arm before they dress for training. He only knows that it makes him feel warm, at ease. It does not hurt that he knows Barsad will no longer be leaving in the night. It makes the air in the temple feel different, more relaxed even as training takes place. Or perhaps it is only more relaxed because their leader has taken a temporary leave to search out for something. What that is, he will not say, but Bane can privately admit he does not mind the reprieve.

It is strange, but without Ra's Al Ghul watching over the training rooms, he finds more members approach him, not only to talk, but to seek guidance. He finds himself with more partners than he is certain what to do with. When he glances over to Barsad and Talia to make sure they do not feel slighted, they only seem approving that he is getting the attention. At times they baffle him.

“You are a natural leader, Bane. It is not surprising they are flocking to you,” Barsad tells him as the three of them eat together. Bane cannot imagine what leads him to think such a thing.

“I have lead no one before.”

“You guided me to freedom, friend,” Talia interjects calmly, and her hand pats over his own. “I can see what Barsad sees. If my father were not behaving so foolishly, he would take you as his right hand.”

“Do not speak ill of your father,” Bane admonishes her, and she merely curls her smooth upper lip into a near sneer, a habit he wishes she had not picked up from Barsad. She does not mean it; Ra's is the only true family she has, and she is at an age where she even speaks ill of him, at times, when she is frustrated. Bane only wishes for her not to say something she might regret.

Barsad hardly helps. His own lips twist as he sips from his bowl. “Our leader is wise in many ways, brother. But he seems to lack all of it when it comes to you.” Bane gives him a stern look, and he hides his face behind his bowl further, averting his gaze for a moment before he speaks again. “We cannot help expressing our frustration at such an injustice over one we care so much about, brother.”

Talia pauses and glances at them, her spoon hovering towards her mouth before a small smile graces her lips. She continues eating without another word. Her lips press to his scarred cheek gently before he finishes his last bite of food and fixes the mask back into place.

“You are happy with him.” Her words surprise him as she leans against the wall of the dojo, having just finished a brutal training session with Barsad. Sweat drips down from her small frame, and her ever-growing hair has been pulled back into a small braid that barely peeks out of the collar of her top. Barsad is putting away the wooden staffs they had been using to spar, but Bane can just make out the peak of blue indicating his eyes are on them as they stand close together. Bane watches as the string between them is lively, floating around after Barsad as he walks. His fingers almost go to it, but instead he turns to face Talia.

“He is my brother.”

“Bane.” Her tone is near mirthful, so rare that is pulls at the corners of his own lips.

“He is... perhaps more.”

She touches his arm gently, a quiet blessing as she leaves the training room. Bane wonders how it is that she seems to understand this more than he feels like he can ever hope to. Barsad is by him when she leaves, his own body slick and flushed. It only makes him think of how often he sees that in their bedroom, now, how Barsad squirms in his pallet and rocks into his own hand, wringing moans of pleasure from his own body as Bane can never quite look away.

Barsad's eyes narrow at him in confusion. “Is something the matter?”

Bane shakes his head quickly, dismissing such thoughts. They are not something he should be dwelling on, especially not when it is time to train and clear his mind. Barsad almost looks as if he will ask again, but Kojo is on him soon, cajoling him over to wrestle on the mats with him. The bigger man's eyes meet his for a moment, and it is not an asking of permission, Barsad is far from an object, but it is clear that he is making sure that Bane does not take offense. He does not, and he is surprised when Kojo asks him later if he will wrestle with him, next.


	9. Chapter 9

Barsad watches as Bane and Kojo slam one another down to the mat, how their muscles stretch and bulge. He can almost hear the pop as Bane's arm is nearly pulled from his socket, his body tensing against the cool wall of stone before Bane breaks the pin and flips them, grunts as he puts Kojo into his own hold.

It is hardly his cock's fault for taking an interest at the two incredible bodies systematically tearing one another apart. It was just reacting as nature intended, and he could barely suppress a rueful laugh that Bane was now touching Kojo more than he had while training with Barsad in weeks. It seemed as though since he had begun pleasuring himself in the privacy of their room, that all of their training had suddenly become focused on weapons, not wrestling, meditations, not stretching one another’s bodies.

Yet, at night, he feels his eyes on him. He would be lying if he said it was only a small hardship to give up on seeking pleasure with Kojo. It has been many years since he has simply relied on his own hand for relief. Kojo was a good fuck, and his hand hardly made up for it. Bane's eyes, though, the way they roamed over his body each night… perhaps they gave him hope. He no longer talks to him as he does it, but he does nothing to hide it. After a long day, he lies out on top of his blanket and glides his hands over his body, strokes his cock slowly, twists it in his palm leisurely until he is moaning.

If it is Bane's hands he thinks about touching all over his body, if he strokes himself slower, touches places he usually would not bother to put on a show for his brother, well, it is Bane who chooses to watch and Barsad is only so noble. As it is, he must bite into his bottom lip each night to keep himself from gasping out his brother's name when he loses himself in his own hands. He would stop if Bane gave the word, if he disturbed or upset him, but each night there are only his eyes watching him in the dark and each night perhaps it drives him a little more mad, makes him a little bolder in his actions.

That evening the air is cooler, and he purposefully asks if Bane would mind leaving the coals in the brazier burning a little higher, leaving the room a little brighter for them as he sets a small bottle down by his pallet, stretching his muscles out to loosen them. Bane thinks nothing of it. As time has passed, he has become more... attentive, and Barsad finds it very sweet how he worries over him, as though he is a fragile thing when they both know him to be deadly. His eyes happen upon the bottle, and he looks curious, but says nothing.

When it is time to sleep, the red light of the coals kisses over his skin, makes him look as if he is glowing as he lies out on his pallet. There is no pretense. Bane is already watching, and Barsad can see his eyes this time in the light, glances towards him, acknowledging how he watches him each night with that simple look before he pets along his own belly, his thumbs hooking into the elastic of his pants. He rolls them down and sets them aside, a change in the normal routine of simply shoving them down to his thighs.

It makes it easier to spread them, to plant his feet flat on his blankets and scrunch the bedding between his toes as he takes a breath. As calm and casual as he likes to act, there is always a small shiver in his belly about doing this in front of Bane, especially now as he takes hold of the small bottle and squeezes some lubricant into his palm. The slippery liquid warms quickly in his hand, and he coats the tips of his fingers. Bane hasn't caught up, yet, at least Barsad does not think he has. His breathing has not changed since Barsad lay down.

It doesn't change, not until Barsad reaches between his thighs and touches the wetted pad of his finger against his hole. Then it changes with Barsad's own, his a soft sigh, Bane's a sharper gasp, a rough pull of air and medication into his lungs.

“It's alright, Bane,” he assures, almost smiling that he has to affirm to Bane that this is what he wants, even when it is he, himself, doing the touching. It has been some time since he has played with himself there as not simply a means to be stretched open enough for a prick. 

The thought is a reminder to take it slowly, and his eyes close as he bears down on his finger, sliding it into himself with another sigh. The slight stretch is nothing, just something that whets his appetite for more, to be filled further. To some extent, this is not something he does often. It makes him feel too open with others for something that is just a quick means to get off. When he does allow it, he flips over to his hands and knees, closes his eyes, and demands they do all they can to satisfy him while he does not have to see their face, only has to focus on their cock pumping into him endlessly.

He begins to slide his finger back out slowly, about to add another when suddenly Bane's hand is wrapped tightly around his wrist, stilling him. His eyes flare open in surprise. He had not even heard Bane move. His training has made him far too capable of moving his mass without a sound, a silent enormous shadow.

“What are you doing?” Bane hisses it out as his body moves over him. Barsad's chest rises sharply and he must remind his own body that Bane looks angry, not playful, not like he wants to touch or fuck into him even though he is right over him.

“It is… it is the same thing I have done each night, brother, merely another way to do it.” He brings his dry hand up to boldly run a finger across the grate of Bane's mask, making his eyes narrow, his head shaking.

“This is not the same.”

“I still find it pleasurable.”

“You can't.” And there is a sweet worry to the twist in Bane's tone that nearly breaks his heart. “To like this, to find it a pleasure... If someone were to discover it…”

Of course. If one were to be discovered to enjoy such a thing in the pit, it would damn them. Far be it from one to actually enjoy something that was used as a means to put another in their place. He makes a soft shushing noise and leans up from the pallet. Tonight, he is bold, and he places a kiss on Bane's mask, feeling the uncertain breath from it puff across his own lips. When he licks them, he tastes chemicals, herbs.

“It is not the pit, Bane. There is no harm in my enjoying it, here.” He wishes he could add 'or anywhere', but he well enough knows the rot of the world, how many have had the validity of their strings be questioned when it was discovered they were tied to another man or woman. He understood when he had grown that his mothers had had such troubles, and he, himself, had been targeted for his size as something to use, to force, to dominate when he had been in different militia, an assumption others had paid dearly for.

Here, though, Bane is safe. He is safe, and Barsad wants him to know that, to truly know it and understand it.

His fingers touch the exposed flesh of his cheek beneath the straps of his mask, tapping a reassuring beat with the tips of them, a light stroke across the warmth. “It feels good to me, Bane, my brother. Will you let me show you the pleasure it brings me?”

Bane breathes over him, those same chemicals reaching his nose now. The slight whiff of them into his own lungs is slowly making him more lightheaded, but he would not trade this position for anything, to have Bane crowded over him protectively. His hand is still on his wrist, and Barsad lies back again, touching his hand.

“Let me?”

Long moments of silence and harsh breaths pass before Bane's fingers unclasp, one by one, from his wrist. Barsad sees him about to shift to move, and shakes his head quickly, gaining his attention.

“You can see better, here. I know how you watch, Bane. I do not think you truly wish to move off of me.”

“...You are brazen, brother,” Bane says quietly.

“But I am not wrong,” he replies with confidence when Bane is still over him. “This is where you want to be,” he breathes out quietly, and looks up into his eyes. “Watch me.”

Bane shifts, but it is not to leave, it is only to turn his head down so that he can watch Barsad's fingers slowly disappearing into himself again, up to his bottom knuckles which catch and rub against the sensitive skin of his rim. The slick slide and the feeling of Bane's warmth radiating over him makes it feel as though there are sparks running over his skin. 

He hums softly and relaxes back, as much as he can do such a thing as his body is slowly wound up tight. It is difficult to stay slow, but he wants to show Bane how it can be gentle, even though his body is singing out for him to thrust his fingers faster, to fuck himself on them eagerly if he cannot have Bane, himself. Soon, two fingers are not enough, and he pushes in a third, mouth dropping open. He bites his bottom lip to stave off the tremble in it as he pushes them deep, fast, his body hungrily clenching down on them, and he curls his own fingers, striking his nerves.

It makes him arch as a spike of pleasure runs through him. He is so close to brushing his cock against Bane's stomach, so close he can imagine how it would feel to rub the wet tip of himself against the tight skin and powerful muscle of his belly, how Bane would feel crushing down further, spreading him wider, forcing himself into him. Not forcing, Barsad knows he would open up for him so easily, he would welcome him inside with his name on his lips, and oh, he wants that, and even though he knows it will not happen, he cannot keep himself from babbling it.

“I would let you do this to me.” He whines it out, near desperate and hating the tone to his own voice, but he means every word, every gasp, ever throaty murmur. “I would make it good for you, brother.”

Bane says nothing, but he is still watching, his head tipped down so Barsad cannot fully see his blue eyes and pale brows, but he can hear his breathing, heavy. Heavier still when Barsad reaches down to take hold of his own cock, the ache in it too much to bear, the pleasure of stroking it in his hands as he pistons his fingers faster into himself almost more excruciating. He is nearly writhing under Bane, moaning out and wishing he was being touched, stretching himself open more and feeling the burn.

“It wouldn't hurt me, Bane, brother. I know you would not,” he mutters, closing his eyes as his words nearly slur out past his dry lips. “I would teach you how,” he promises, knowing it is in vain as his wrist begins to ache from the angle of his fingers pumping into himself, his hand growing slick from the fluids leaking out of his cock, smearing over his fingertips, but he is unable to stop. “I would teach you how it can be good for us both, how much I want you inside—” He is cut off by his own sharp cry of pleasure, feeling his orgasm shudder through him as he pants out his brother's name, tight, arching as he pulses out, and then slumping, the aftershocks of his pleasure cut short with embarrassment over how he has just so shamefully behaved.

There is an apology on his lips. It is cut off when Bane presses their foreheads together, the metal and leather of Bane's mask chilly to the touch.

“Perhaps one day... I might be able to touch you as you so desire, my brother.” It is said with wistfulness, and Bane's fingers stroke across his damp cheek.

Barsad shakes his head. “I went too far, I apologize.”

“Do not. It is I who cannot give you what you wish. You have been tied to a damaged string.” Bane lifts off of him then and sits up, farther back, to his own mat, and Barsad feels exposed without him over his body, naked, his come already drying sticky on his belly, his hands a mess. He sits up, breath still making his chest rise and fall rapidly, and he leans forward to kiss Bane's cheek, feeling him cautiously still.

“We are all damaged, Bane. The world is cruel, and you have perhaps seen the worst of it. I have wishes, desires, but having you... it is already more than I ever thought I would have in this world, what I dreamed of as a child, and I am grateful.” He does not wait for Bane's answer, he instead goes to clean, coming back to Bane staring into the fire, quietly. Their mats have been pulled together. They always sleep close, but now their pallets are touching, as though they are one.

“It seemed only wise, from the cold.”

“From the cold,” Barsad agrees with a smile, and lies down beside him. There is hesitance in them both, his own wantonness in some ways easier than this type of intimacy, now. He fucks others, he does not lie so close to them, he does not feel their arm hover over him for a moment in the dark as if it wants to encompass him, and he certainly does not take others by the hand as he does Bane, now, pulling his arm down slowly so that it is tucked under his own, his palm resting against his chest.

“This is truly what you dreamed of as a child?” Bane's question is breathed out against the back of his neck. It tickles and makes him smile in the dark.

“It is, in many ways... When my mothers told me of strings, what they are, I spent my entire childhood dreaming of meeting you both, of having two people out there in the world that I was meant to love and be loved by in return.” The last part is whispered as he places his hand over Bane's. He can feel their string, can feel the delicate knot over Bane's pinky that ties them together forever, and he strokes over it gently, thankfully. “Am I speaking too much?” he asks when Bane says nothing, worried he has pushed too far.

“No. You have taught me many things about them. I do not find them to be the burden I once did. I... I am glad we are bonded together, and that I have you.”

Barsad is certain that his heart may well yet leap out of his chest and into Bane's hand at such words. “And I you...” He stops when he feels Bane's finger stroke slowly across his cheek, rubbing through the coarse hair there. He feels rather like a cat, and closes his eyes to the touch.

“Was there something else?”

There was. It takes him a moment to remember, to open his eyes. “Yes... Do you ever think of our third?” he cannot help but ask curiously. It has been a subject on his mind for some time now, something that he had no thought on how to broach before tonight, but tonight feels different, like they are laying out pieces of themselves, out in the open for the other to see.

The finger on his cheek stills. “Our third?”

“We are three stringed, Bane. That means there is a third out there, another who is supposed to complete us.”

“I suppose... I had not given thought to either of you in many years. Seeing you is still a shock. Do you think of them?” Bane's voice is uncertain now, as if he does not know if he likes such a thing, or perhaps he is unsure because the thought has not occurred to him before.

“I do now, yes. I think of them each night and wonder. Sometimes I think of what it might be like to find them.”

“Find them?” The idea surprises Bane. “You were willing to seek neither of us out, before… why do you wish differently, now?”

“Because before I thought you two had one another. I was certain that you were in love and simply did not wish me. I wanted you both to be happy together... but now, I have realized that it is not like that at all. If I found you alone and hurting in the pit... what must our other be enduring, as well?”

“You worry for them.”

“I never wanted either of you to be alone.” He settles under Bane's arm more, feeling his fingertips pressing into his chest again, possessive. He wonders if it is from worry or because Barsad is talking of another.

“Only yourself.”

“I did not—” Bane's fingers travel up to his lips, pressing against them to quiet him.

“You were willing to be, for us. You did not even go to look, to see.” It is not accusing, not quite, but Barsad feels like he might cringe, anyway. “Why?”

“Because I was afraid,” he murmurs quietly, Bane's hold and his prodding pulling the secret out of him more easily than any torture might. “Because I was afraid I would find you, and you would reject me. My heart was safer.”

“And yet when you found me, you stayed with me, knowing I despised you...”

“You needed me. I... I accepted your hate to ensure that you were well.”

“You give too much. You attempt to give everything you have, and you will be empty if you do not stop.” Bane sounds worried, and Barsad shakes his head, turning carefully under his arm so that he might see him in the dark.

“I am not empty. I am full. You may not feel it, but you have given me much.” He rests his hand on Bane's chest, mimicking his action from before and feeling the steady beat under his hand. “My life has become better since I found you both. I had purpose before, but now I feel as though I have meaning, that I am a person, not merely a tool.” 

“Merely a tool?” Bane's eyes furrow at the echoed thought. “Of course not.”

“Well, thank you, brother.” Barsad laughs softly, and after a moment he cannot even see the crinkles around Bane's eyes and yet he can feel that he is smiling for him, only for a moment before it is gone.

“What will we do?” Barsad makes a questioning noise, and Bane pulls him closer. “About the other string.”

“You... wish to do something?” He is uncertain if Bane is merely humoring him or if he has made him concerned as well, but he is asking and it is sweet. “There is nothing to do, is there? We cannot leave. We are bound by honor and duty here, are we not?”

“Does no one leave for their string, here?”

“We are the only pair here. The others, they all have different stories, I am sure. Some never found their string, others have lost them, I'm sure still others have never looked for different reasons... it is never talked about.”

“It would not be acceptable to leave, then,” Bane acknowledges. “What else?”

“You are suddenly persistent.”

“You have planted a seed of worry in me,” Bane admits, almost saying it accusingly.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to share my worry. I'm unsure what can be done, though... I have not felt them in years, have you? They very well might be dead.” The old thought from childhood resurfaces strongly in his mind, the panic and dread of thinking both of them had died and died young. It troubles him, and Bane can sense it, touches his thumb to his brow to soothe out the worry to it.

“We have not felt them... but they have not felt us, either. Perhaps they think there is no reason to be looking.”

Barsad understands, then, and he smiles at Bane's solution. It is an obvious thing, really. They could not go to their string, but if they thought that they were alone, they were not, and it is their job now to show them that, even if they could not go to them.

Barsad reaches for the string on his finger as Bane's hand goes to his own. He plucks the same hopeful rhythm that his fingers remember from a childhood that feels so long ago as he watches Bane pulling at the string's brother, sending twin messages, to whoever was on the other side, that they had not forgotten them.


	10. Chapter 10

John wakes twisted up in his sheets, body half shoved off the small, crooked bunk he'd crashed on the night before. The air is cleaner than it could be, but uncomfortably stale, and the sweat soaking his cotton t-shirt isn't making things any better. He can't complain. The shelter he'd finally gotten into had a waiting list that could stretch across the Narrows and back, something he knows he only broke through because of his age, his baby face when he'd go to the front area each day and ask if there was an opening, his book bag slung over his shoulder.

 

“ _Are you sure there isn't anything ma’am, anything at all? I'm clean. I'm quiet, I just want to get through school.” He rubbed the back of his neck and could see the pity in her eyes. He hated that he wanted it there because it might actually get him what he wanted._

 

“ _Let me see what I can do, sweetheart,” she'd said finally, after weeks of showing up every morning, as clean as he could get from the showers at school, from storing what little possessions he had in his locker._

 

It's clean here, strict rules or you're out with plenty of people waiting to take your bed, but he can handle it. It isn't much different than the boys’ home, and he would make do while he got through school. It sure as hell beat the park benches he'd been curling up on before going into classes each morning. With luck, after he graduates, he'll be able to get some financial aid, live in the dorms or, if worse comes to worst, see how long he can get away with sleeping in the library.

 

Now, though, those thoughts are far away as he can't keep his breathing steady. Something is wrong, off. His stomach is as twisted as his sheets, and he can feel bile churning up, pushing at the back of his throat. He doesn't get it. He's got shit luck, but this feels like a fucking panic attack or something, and he's never had one of those.

 

He takes a deep breath to calm himself, but when he rubs his hands over his face he feels it, what his body was sensing and reacting to so strongly that it woke him, spiraling into a near anxiety attack. Hell, maybe he'd felt it in his dreams, maybe that's why they'd turned so sour.

 

Light pulls and soft plucks. His pinkies tingle all the way from knuckle to tip.

 

It's enough to make him nauseous all over again. He'd told himself he'd never feel them again, would never have to worry about them. They'd stopped so long ago that it had, over time, just proven what John knew as a kid; no one needed John, and he didn't need anyone, the strings were wrong, and he was alone. It's what he wants. Alone is safe. Alone means he doesn't get his heart ripped out of his chest. It means he survives, and he wins whatever cruel fucked up hand life decides to deal to him next.

 

When he hadn't heard from them in so long, he figured they'd found each other young, and just weren't looking. It was a relief. Now they're back, and it turns his earlier panic into anger. They had better not look for him. He doesn't want to be found. He's not some lost soul or kicked puppy just waiting for his string to show up and take care of him just because they were older, probably had their shit together, maybe even some sort of life carved out. It didn't matter. His life is shit right now, but _he's_ good, and he doesn't need them or any sort of pity that has to come with being found like this. He's gonna make it without them, and they can go to hell for all he cares.

 

He's tempted to yank at the strings, but he doesn't. It would just tell them that he's out there, and that's the last thing he wants. If he does nothing, maybe they'll get the idea that he's dead. He doesn't know what he'll do if they come. It's not like they can force him to be with them. They could talk to him, though, try to convince him to be with them. What if he gets stuck? What if he falls into that stupid trap of love like his parents did and he lets it consume him just so he can feel all burnt out inside when it's ripped away again?

 

He shakes his head and settles back down onto the bed. He needs a shower, he needs to get some food in him before class, but the lines to breakfast and the showers are long, and chances are he's only getting into one of them. The thoughts settle him. Survival he can deal with. It's what he does, and it's concrete, something to plant his feet on.

 

He thinks about school, about the little job in the corner shop near it that he's managed to snag. Under the table, enough to stash away some money to eat if he's kicked out of the shelter. He hopes it's enough for college admissions, eventually. Thinking about it helps him breathe, helps him ignore the soft pulls and plucks as they continue. He just wants to sleep. He can't, though, not feeling them. God, what if they really do come for him? He thinks about the news, instead. Bruce Wayne disappearing, gone for months with no leads. Rumors abound, most people think he's dead or off looking for his string.

 

John remembers seeing him in the boys’ home when he was little, the fake smile that matched his own. Bruce Wayne wasn't off looking for his string. John would have placed money on it that he probably never felt a single twitch from his string in his life, either that or he was avoiding it as much as John was. Smart.

 

He hears a drugged up groan not far from him. Some jackass dumb enough to get high inside of the shelter. He'll get kicked soon. John has no idea who he is, hasn't learned any names beyond the ones at the front desk. He's not a name person, not for adults, anyway, and he only talks to them to get around the curfew set. Being in the shelter by a certain time meant he couldn't go see the boys at the home, and he'd have stayed on the park bench if that was the case.

 

He can't sleep. He can still feel them. It's worse when he closes his eyes, so he keeps them open and stares up at the cracks in the ceiling until his watch beeps, and he begins to get up with some of the other guys, managing the shower before he runs off to classes. He can feel it then, too. It's not constant, but it's there when he tries to focus, it spoils his appetite when he finally gets time to sit down for lunch. John just wants it to go away.

 

The problem is that he's too curious for his own good. He knows they're bad, that ignoring them is the best thing he can do, but his mind is flooded with the contemplation of 'what if'. And if he's not real fucking careful, it's going to be his downfall, because one day he’ll be weak and he'll twist those strings back and give himself away, let them know that there's someone alive out there to look for. Worse yet, they'll think he wants them to come find him.

 

He's pretty sure he fails a history pop quiz just thinking about it, about what if they came and were great. What if it was like all of those romance movies he hated, where they came and everything was just so damn perfect, and then it all got ripped away. He shoves his hands into his pockets during his shift at the corner store and hates the knowing smiles from people who walk in. He has to bite back a glare when an older man glances at his pockets and smiles.

 

“About that time when that string just won't leave you be, isn't it?”

 

He shrugs sullenly, and the man just seems amused when he tucks his paper under his arm and leaves. It's not constant throughout the day like it was the night before. He'd probably go crazy otherwise, but every once in a while he feels the pull or a pluck and whatever he's doing is forgotten, and his teeth go on edge. By the time it is bedtime and he's checking into the shelter, dropping down on his bunk, he just wants to sleep.

 

And that's when they start up more. He can't sleep. He doesn't know if they're trying to be nice or torment him, anymore.

 

It won't stop. Week after week and night after night they're there with him. There's so much frustration welling up in him that he feels like he could fucking cry. He's exhausted, running on fumes. Anyone else, anyone else and those strings would be lulling them to sleep every night, a promise that they weren't alone, but to John it's just a threat, and he feels like he can't take it anymore. But they don't stop, and the questions in his head don't stop, and he wonders if they ever will again.

 

____________________

 

The quiet sort of peace that comes with Ra's Al Ghul's mysterious absence ends as quickly as it begins. Talia does not join them at breakfast, and that is enough to tell Bane he has returned. This is their leader, and he attempts not to let his return be anything but welcome. Barsad sees through it easily, though he says nothing as they eat together. As they eat, he watches as Barsad occasionally gives an absent pluck of his string. They have been doing so throughout the days, more in the evenings when they retire to their room.

 

It is far from the only way they have spent their evenings. Barsad still touches himself for him—and Bane has come to realize that the display is indeed in many ways for _him_ —nightly, and Bane is helpless to watch. He is mesmerizing, and it often stirs him in ways he has never felt, ways that, when he admits it to Barsad, causes a glint to his eyes.

 

“It is _arousal_ , Bane,” Barsad teases softly, and Bane feels heat rise to his own cheeks. “Your body knows that I am yours.”

 

Bane is far from used to arousal. He had felt it fleetingly as a youth, but with no knowledge, and with the cruelties that came with growing in the pit it was quickly tamped out. Now, though, his body reacts to Barsad on their shared bedding, the beautiful arch of his throat and his wispy, needful breaths. It makes him hard one night, and it nearly spooks him. It is the first time he orders Barsad to stop touching himself, desperate. Barsad does with a startled, bereft moan, sitting up and looking at him with concern.

 

“What is it?”

 

“It is—” Bane shakes his head and stands to leave. “I should not have interrupted, I am sorry.”

 

Barsad is too quick, though, even disoriented and bare he is standing by their door. Bane looks away from the flush covering him from head to toe.

 

“Why are you leaving?” Barsad begins to ask, and then his voice trails off. Bane knows that he has wanted this, is pleased to look down and see the stiffness in Bane's pants, but it still nearly makes his head duck. “Bane... stay, please? There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

 

“I am aware of _that_. You have made certain to tell me many, many times, brother,” he cannot help but point out, feeling near petulant when Barsad laughs softly, but the gentle touch to his elbow guides him back down to the bedding.

 

“Will you let me see?” Barsad asks, kneeling down in front of him, as if he is a prize to be displayed. It hardly helps matters. He wants to shake his head, but there is such a glint of hopefulness in the shine of his brother's eyes that he wordlessly reaches down and guides his cock from the loose cotton enveloping it.

 

He is hard, full, and red like he remembers vaguely when he grew into his limbs, before such interests were quickly soured. It makes Barsad murmur quietly in appreciation as he looks.

 

“Will you let me touch it?”

 

Bane shakes his head in a firm ‘no’. Just the thought sets him off ease, and he is relieved Barsad only nods, does not press or reach for him. Instead, he asks something else.

 

“Will you let me watch you touch it?”

 

“Like you have done for me?”

 

Barsad nods, and Bane, he is curious. Barsad enjoys it so much. He cannot help but wonder what it would be like. When he does not answer, Barsad touches his shoulder to bring his attention back to him.

 

“I could guide you?”

 

Bane nods, too quickly, but Barsad has proven to be a good teacher in all things he has learned from him, and Bane can admit now that he is curious. Barsad has shown with his own body's reactions how good such a thing can feel, and now Bane cannot help but wonder if it would be the same for him. Barsad's delight shows in his eyes, and he presses his lips together for a moment, clearly taking this consent seriously, as something to make certain he is doing well. It is touching that it truly matters to him that Bane enjoys it.

 

Finally, Barsad seems to make up his mind. He asks Bane to open his hand so he can pour some of the lotion he uses into it, not for penetration, but to make the slide of skin nicer. He does enjoy watching Barsad's cock when he is slippery with it, so he agrees, feeling the cool liquid warm quickly in the palm of his hand.

 

He is surprised when Barsad's hand returns to his own with a soft sigh. At his confused look Bane receives a small smile.

 

“What better way to teach than by mimicking my movements. Is that not how we first learn?”

 

It is, and it is also distracting. After a moment, he works up the nerve to wrap his hand around his own length. It tingles slightly, different from what he is used to, and the slickness on his hand makes his palm slide easily over the shaft. He attempts to mimic Barsad's movements. He makes such a thing look easy, the slow glide of his hand over his cock. Bane finds it overwhelming. He swallows, feeling his throat bob and a low groan rise from his chest as tendrils of tentative pleasure curl through him.

 

“There, see? It is not so hard,” Barsad murmurs out, and Bane's breath hitches when he mimics his motion of rubbing his thumb over his foreskin, slowly sliding it back and exposing the head of his cock. “Nearly every boy learns to do it eventually.”

 

“I am not a boy,” Bane mutters in return, but he is not paying attention to the words much, they are more a soothing calmness that keeps him level and pushes bad memories away as steady, almost cautious pleasure runs through him. Barsad seems to see this, and keeps talking, encouraging, until a shivery breath runs through Bane's body, until he is able to let his head drop back as he pumps his fist.

 

The quick glide of smooth skin builds, it makes his body burn in ways that don't mean pain. His breath is uneven, and he feels almost lost, drifting, tied to the world only by Barsad's voice guiding him through the pleasure, anchoring him, reminding him to keep his breathing steady. The hand on his thigh clenches into a fist until suddenly Barsad's is over it, squeezing. His own voice is thick, laced with pleasure as he strokes in time with him, as Bane feels like he is just at the crest of something he has seen Barsad tip over into many times now.

 

“Let go, brother.” It is a gentle urging, and Bane's body obeys its call. A low groan catches in his throat, and his shoulders are shaking as it feels like he has been punched in the stomach. There is no pain, but his breath is gone, his body is tense as pleasure rushes through him, come rushing out and falling back onto his hand, the floor, a sling of it landing on his chest.

 

“Good... Good.” Barsad sounds strained, and when Bane opens his eyes they are treated to the added pleasure of seeing his eyes barely opened, his body tightened in his own orgasm, a sight he has come to know well and selfishly enjoy. He squeezes his own hand in turn for it, the motion making the corner of Barsad's lips turn up as he sighs contently. They do not speak after, and Bane is grateful for it. He feels out of sorts, the pleasure a reminder of all that has changed now, of all he had been robbed of in the pit, but is now being offered to him. After they clean, Barsad tucks under his arm for warmth, a content glow to him, his mouth soon slack with sleep. Bane finds himself trailing a finger just under his bottom lip before joining him in it.

 

This _'_ arousal', as Barsad calls it, has become a tricky thing, like Barsad has opened up a locked box inside of him and now things are spilling out. He feels it when they train at times, when Barsad's body twists, glistening with sweat, when he throws off an opponent and his fist crunches down into his nose, the mixture of grace and power stirring him.

 

It seems to affect him more, today, perhaps the strain of knowing Ra's has returned making his mind focus elsewhere. After Barsad's elbow snaps into another’s face, he looks over towards Bane, a self-assured grin lighting his features. His eyebrows rise in confusion when Bane cannot quite meet his eyes. Barsad leaves the floor and walks over to him.

 

“Is something troubling you?”

 

“It is nothing.” Bane quickly says, but there must be something to his tone. Barsad glances down and Bane feels a heat grow in his cheeks at the gentle laugh, how he takes his hand without a second thought and leads them back to their bedroom.

 

“We are young, still, Bane, are we not? It is only natural for your body to be hungry now that it has been woken.”

 

“I do not know my age.” It is all Bane can think to reply with, feeling uncomfortable with how stiff he feels, especially with the light of the day streaming into the room with them.

 

“I feel as though we are close in age. We must be, with how our strings started. It means you are in your early twenties, I imagine, and, as you should be, full of desire... let me see you again?”

 

He begins to nod, but there is a knock, disappointment flashing in Barsad's eyes, and Bane feels as though his own must match it. It is Talia, though, and the worry on her face makes them forget their arousal. She walks in and closes the door behind her, glancing around.

 

“I am certain that you guessed my father has returned. He came back alone, but he has spoken to me. There is another coming... He acts as though he is a savior.” Her face twists sourly. “He plans to use him in his plans.”

 

They both know that there are plans underway. Talia knows of them, Ra's shares with her, but they themselves know very little. Bane is certain that if he asked, Talia would share with him, but it feels wrong to undermine her father in such a way. Still, there is a feeling of planning in the air. Everyone has been training harder, themselves included. Bane's body finally feels like his own again, and if anything it feels stronger, more improved. He feels more like the monster that Barsad assures him that he is not.

 

“Is this not good news, little one?” Bane curls the edges of her hair around his fingers, enjoying that is has reached her shoulders now, falling in soft waves.

 

“It does not feel like good news.” Her face looks tight, concerned. “Something feels wrong. He wants to speak with you.”

 

“Then I will go to him and listen,” Bane tells her. He has done nothing wrong. He has worked endlessly to train as hard as any other in the League.

 

Barsad moves forward quickly. “I will go along.”

 

“There is no need. The invitation was extended to me alone, I assume.”

 

“Be that as it may... Please, I wish to accompany you.”

 

Bane nearly refuses him again, but there is an agitation to his brother. His hands are moving, and one clasps over the other, his fingers slowly stroking over the neat bow on his pinky. His fingers loop around it and gave the string a restless pull. Standing so close and feeling its pull nearly tugs him forward.

 

“Very well.”

 

“Then I will come, _too._ ” Talia's jaw sets firmly. Bane shakes his head.

 

“Talia. That is too much. It will feel like a confrontation.”

 

“Perhaps it _is_ one,” she spits back, fire in her tone. “I have had enough of his treatment of you.” Her gaze is firm. If Barsad goes, she will go. There will be no swaying her. He shakes his head and squeezes her shoulders.

 

“Both of you are trouble.” It is all he can think to say. He can say no to one, but both? It feels impossible, not with Barsad's fingers twisted around his string and the fierce look of defiance in Talia's eyes.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

  
It is trouble that Barsad hopes to prevent. He can see the worry in Talia's eyes, and it is reflected in his own. Ra's Al Ghul avoids Bane at all costs. For him to tell him to come... Something is not right, and Bane is his string. Now that they are together, he will not let him face such a thing alone. They follow him down the hall even though Bane keeps them at a distance, seeming to wish to do this alone. They are both too stubborn to allow it.

 

Ra's Al Ghul's study is a quiet place, just as Barsad remembers it from when he went there before, before the pit, before his world had changed completely. He does not miss how Bane's eyes catch onto the bookshelves, his eyes roaming longingly over the titles there. He has already read every book Barsad has been able to trade for him, his mind ravenous for more.

  
Their leader stands behind his desk. His back is rigid as he walks from behind it, his hands clasped behind his back. When he sees that Bane has not come alone, there is a clear displeasure on his features.

 

“Talia—”

 

“What you wish to say to my friend, you will say to me.”

 

“It is nothing you need to concern yourself with.” His hand leaves his back and it cuts through the air, sharply, dismissively. “Either of you.”

 

This is the leader of their group. Barsad is always respectful. Except now.

 

“He is my string. His concerns are my own.” He leans against the wall, showing that he will not be moved. Talia's brow furrows, a confusion on her face at his words. They have not spoken of it, but it can be explained later. It is not what is important now.

 

Ra's Al Ghul is less than pleased. His voice is sharp, and Barsad feels as though he wishes it to cut through him as he speaks. It is only dulled slightly for Talia's sake, or he is certain he would be in pieces on the floor.

 

“He is, and you told me once that such a thing would not cloud your judgment.”

 

Barsad nearly feels a pang of guilt, not for his altercation with Ra's, but for the lost look in Bane's eyes as he looks between all three of them, the tension thick in the air. He will not speak out against Talia's father. He feels he owes the man too much. Barsad feels as though the man owes _him_ for all he has done.

 

“It has not clouded my judgment.” He feels how the words snap out of his mouth, and he is dangerously close to saying something unforgivable, that perhaps it is not _him_ whose judgment should be questioned, who has been made cloudy from their string or their memory of them.

 

“ _Enough._ ” Ra's’ hands press onto the desk. He is too in control of himself to slam a fist to it, and yet it still feels as though it has the same effect; Barsad's mouth snaps shut, Talia's eyes glance down to the floor before looking back up, her body stiff with agitation.

 

Ra's turns his attention from them and to Bane. Their arguing seems to make whatever he had been about to say cut short. “Your time with the League has drawn to a close. You are unable to complete the initiation and therefore there is no reason to keep you here. I am certain you understand. You are a resource better used elsewhere.”

 

Bane's hands clench tightly. The only thing that keeps Barsad and Talia from shouting out in his defense is the knowledge that Bane is respectful. They know that he will accept many things, but what he will not accept is being cast away from Talia.

 

“You have never allowed me to complete the initiation.” It is not said with anger, rather it is calm, like a still sea, something more dangerous.

 

“Because it cannot be done.” Ra's looks no more dissuaded. “It must be done of your own merit.”

 

“Do not act like he does not have the strength!” Talia shouts it, and Ra's’ hand cuts through the air sharply.

 

“It must be done without aid. Without the mask.”

 

“Then it will be done,” Bane says quietly, and Barsad's stomach lurches for him. He knows the terror of the trial, the strength it takes to complete it. For Bane to be at such a disadvantage, and to face it...

 

It does not seem to matter to their leader. He does not even wish to give him the chance.

 

“Time is one of our rarest and most valuable assets. I will not have it wasted for a task that cannot be completed.”

 

“That is not what this is about at all.” Talia stalks up to her father. His height and age on her does not seem to matter. It feels as though she is an electric current, energy around her and at her command as she stands him down, looks at him coldly. "You wished to use him. And now that you have found your new chosen one, you wish to be rid of him. I see you, father. You fool no one. If he leaves, we leave with him."

 

Bane begins to shake his head, and Barsad's fingers go to his wrist. It is true. Neither will leave him. It is something that he knows neither of them will give him a say in. Talia continues on, though, her arms crossing, her stance widening.

 

"Let him take the final tests. If you are so certain he is not capable, then you have nothing to fear." There is venom and challenge in Talia's tone that cannot be ignored. Their leader is trapped. Denying her this would only prove her assessments and Barsad's suspicions correct, that he is leading with his emotions, not his logic.

 

He looks down at her. Their eyes match in intensity before he replies calmly, sternly, like she is simply being a wayward child, and he has been persuaded to compromise for her sake. "When he fails this, you will remain here."

 

"When he passes, you will treat him with the respect he deserves,” she responds coldly, and turns from him without another word. Her booted feet thump softly against the cool stone as she leave the office. Barsad feels rather like he is following at her heels.

 

“Talia—”

 

“No.” She shakes her head firmly and continues to walk, shrugging away from Bane's touch when his hand reaches for her.

 

“Habibti...” Bane pulls her back gently and wraps his arms around her, a gentle embrace from behind as they stand in the empty hall.

 

“I will _not_ let him send you away, Bane. I have just found you again.” Her voice is softer, and Barsad can detect the waver in it, the matching tremble of her shoulders in anger and worry. Bane's breath pushes through the mask, gently shushing her.

 

“You did find me, and I will not let myself be sent away from you.”

 

“The challenge is difficult, brother,” Barsad warns. He is sworn to secrecy and cannot say further, but he remembers well breathing in the strange toxins of the flower, his mind racing and his heart pounding in fear. The fumes brought out one's greatest fears, and of all things he'd found himself alone in the room, surrounded by darkness itself, shadows weaving around in in the black. When he had looked down at his hands, they had been empty, not a hint of red.

 

It was different for everyone. How much worse would it be for Bane without his mask, with everything he had experienced already? Barsad cannot imagine his nightmares and how the vapors would alter them. He knows his brother’s strength, but even he is not certain it can be done.

 

“I will _not_ let myself be sent from you,” Bane repeats firmly, as if it is now set in stone, that he will pass and there is no other alternative. Barsad touches his fingers lightly to his back and feels the tense, heavy breath trapped inside of him. His brother doubts himself. Barsad will not be the one to do the same. He bites into his tongue and takes a steady breath before he lets his arms wrap around the wide expanse of his brother's frame. He holds him while he in turn holds Talia, and he pours all of his confidence into him, every ounce he possesses.

 

“You _will_ do this. I am certain of it.”

 

Bane is given no time to prepare. No time to train himself further, or find an inner peace. He is called for the very next morning. The evening before, had been spent not with Barsad putting on a show for him, but with his arms wrapped around him still, a hand resting over his stomach, their legs tangled.

 

“ _For warmth,”_ he had whispered against the back of his neck, his lips brushing ever so slightly against the thick scar there. Bane had said nothing, but their hands had found one another as they always seemed to now, fingers and strings laced.

 

In a morning, a blue envelope slides under their door, the whisper-soft noise waking them both with the light, uneasy rest they had been sharing. Bane tears it open without a word, and Barsad does not need to look to know what it says. It is the same for all who are to be tested. He stands, slowly stretching his limbs and shaking out the sleep from them.

 

His hands go to Bane's shoulders, drawing his eyes up from the letter to him. He looks into the uncertain blue there earnestly, gripping tight. “I must go prepare myself while you do the same. I can tell you nothing of what will happen. I can only tell you this. I know that you will endure, and that I will be with you, even if you cannot see me.”

 

Bane's head dips down, but he says nothing. Barsad turns to leave, his hands curling around the door’s edge before Bane's quiet voice stops him.

 

“What if I cannot?” He does not take his eyes from the letter now. Barsad can see how the paper crumples between his fingers, crushed in a tense grip.

 

Barsad leaves the door and walks back to him. His hand goes to Bane's mask, fingertips pressing lightly onto the chill of the grate. Unsure breath puffs over his hand, but Barsad is confident for them both.

 

“You can. You will, and we will be waiting for you.”

 

He daringly dips forward, placing a kiss to the cool metal tubes before leaving in a rush, forcing the quick hum of his heart to calm. He dresses with the other men, the identical uniforms that make them all blend together in the dark. His eyes catch with Kojo's before he pulls the hood over his face.

 

“You think he will do it?”

 

“I know he will.” Nothing else needs to be said.

 

He stands in line with his brothers just outside of the room, hidden but seeing. He stares as Bane stands before Ra's, and though it is hidden, he knows there is worry on his face as he watches Bane's hands draw up to the back of the mask, unclasping it. He sets it aside carefully, on the table. Without it close by, with no vapors to breathe in, after a few minutes Barsad can already hear his heavy, pained breathing filling the silent air. Ra's Al Ghul only watches him as he prepares the dried flower. The scrape of the mortar and pestle join Bane's labored breaths, and Barsad must work to keep his hands loose, not clenched by his sides as a dead giveaway of his emotions. He is a shadow, and must not be able to be defined as anything else.

 

“Breath, deeply.” Ra's holds the small lit bowl under Bane's scarred nose. Smoke wisps around his face, shrouding him, yet even across the room, Barsad can see the flinch of pain as particles catch and sting at the oversensitive skin stretching over his tattered nostrils. He cannot see the way his eyes dilate, but he knows from his own experience, and he knows how the walls will ebb and pulse for him as if they are alive, how his vision will betray him, how his entire body will betray him, and he will question if he is alive or dead. All of it Barsad has felt, and all of it is something Bane can bear.

 

With the mask. Without it, Barsad's heart is in his throat as he hears Ra's’ challenges and taunting.

 

“Breathe in your fears.” They are the same words said to all of them, that they must become more than men, that they must face their fears, conquer them by becoming fear itself. At Ra's’ command, they spill into the room, shadows and obstacles, seamless precision that can fell Bane if he cannot focus. Barsad can see his fingers shaking as he pulls down the hood of his outfit. Over his scars, the rough friction of fabric must be torture.

 

“You have to become a terrible thought.” Ra's’ voice echoes through them, and it is their signal, all raising their weapons, all stepping into carefully formed lines, neatly dealt out cards, obstacles to hide behind. Ra's is among them, and they each know where. Bane must find him.

 

Bane lumbers forward, his eyes like slits as he peers through the cloth mask, carefully trained grace missing from his limbs now, fear and pain making his body sway as he tries to hunt out Ra's between them. It feels like an impossible task. They hide Ra's in their ranks. He is in the shadows with them, and every passing moment, Bane's body betrays him further.

 

“A wraith.”

 

Bane's hand is shaking so terribly that his sword catches in its sheath, scraping noisily in the tense air.

 

“You have to become an idea!” It is shouted and their swords meet. Bane's swing is weak, and with a clatter his sword is sent scattering across the floor. They shift again, falling into a line, blocking off his weapon from his reach, and Barsad feels sweat beading and soaking into his hood as they use their stance to guide him to his path, to the chest.

 

“Embrace your worst fear.”

 

The catalyst for all Bane feared. It was the same for them all, and his own breathing matches his brother’s as his fingers slip over the lid, having to grasp it more than once, shoving it open with a pained groan. He stares into it and stumbles back, his hands covering his face, digging into the hood, scratching into it as his knees slam into the ground.

 

“Focus!” It is a harsh whisper, and Barsad finds that even he cannot. His own steps falter as Bane's eyes clench tightly closed, as he curls inward, succumbing. It is too much.

 

_Please._ He begs it in his mind, and his own fingers are not still. Not as Bane's palms press into the floor and he staggers to his feet. Ra's' sword sweeps towards him again, and a snarl fills the air. Bane's hand swings out, but Ra's disappears into formation again, and then again. A simple cat and mouse game is zapping what little stamina Bane has left. If he could only focus, Barsad knows he would be able to hunt him out easily, but with each moment, he feels his heart dropping further. Bane wavers through the lines seemingly at random, breaking the formations by weaving through them, almost as if he is not looking for Ra's at all, as if he is truly lost.

 

He closes his eyes for a moment, only a moment, snapping them open again when he feels a sudden twist against his finger, barely there, the motion covered by Bane's jerking movements. He bites into his tongue to stifle his gasp.

 

This is a dance, and suddenly he realizes that Bane does not intend to dance it alone. Bane is not looking for Ra's, knowing that, in his state, he would never find him. He is looking for _him_. He does not dare pull on his string in return, but he steps in time with his brothers. In formation certainly, never out of place, but he chooses each stance carefully. He can focus. He can see what Bane cannot, unclouded by pain and the flower’s fumes. His brother can see one thing, though, they both can.

 

Their string, weaving around each of the men, is an invisible marker to all but themselves. Bane is looking for him, looking for the knot of scarlet around his finger that would mark him off as nothing else could, and suddenly Barsad feels eyes on him, pupils blown, laced with fear and pain, but even in that Bane is not mindless. Barsad does not meet his eyes, he does not dare. He only steps forward again, and then again once more, an endless dance of the men, and he is careful with each step. There is one chance, and he will give it to Bane.

 

He knows when he steps beside him. It is the smoke that gives him away, the cloud of it still clinging to his armor and reaching Barsad's nose. He does not look, to look would give away everything. His fingers curl, instead, a risk, a near imperceptible movement as he plucks the string lightly between his fingers.

 

There is a growl, and suddenly Bane's hand is on Ra's Al Ghul's shoulder, his wide palm at this throat. Barsad wonders for a fleeting moment if, in his drugged state, he might crush it. Instead, he waits for the quiet jerk of Ra's’ head, the pressure against his throat gone in an instant.

 

“Impressive.” It is all that is said, no emotion one way or another to the tone, not disappointment, not bitterness. He nods quietly to Bane, and his entire body turns in one sharp motion to leave the arena as Bane succumbs finally, slumps down to the floor, and wheezes. A victory over the trial, but still defeated by his body. Others file out after Ra's, but not Barsad.

 

They are alone now, as Bane struggles to breathe. Usually, they would stay to congratulate, but his brothers file out quickly. It is not a slight against Bane. It is a quiet understanding of privacy, thoughtful in its own way. Barsad drops down and stills when a crushing grip encircles his wrist, threatening to snap it. He clasps his hand over it gently, and speaks soothingly.

 

“It is me. You have passed, brother. I have you, now.”

 

Bane is still feeling the effects of the vapors. He will for hours, still, and Barsad only hopes it will not interfere with the mask. His mouth opens, and Barsad hushes him quietly, ending his struggle to speak.

 

“Let go. Let me put the mask back on again.”

 

He grunts. Bane's fingers grip harder, and pain shoots up his arm. He shakes his head near violently, so sharp that it must make his face ache worse.

 

“Bane, I must, you are in pain.”

 

“I will not—I will not become a monster. I will not hurt her.” It is spoken in a slur of pain from his broken lips. Of course, Bane's greatest fear would be to cause her harm.

 

“It does not make you a monster, brother, I promise. It is just the toxins of the plant making you feel so. I know it is hard to understand under its influence, but you must overcome it.” He hisses the words out roughly over the pain in his wrist, not daring to snatch it back and hurt himself further, but feeling the acute pain of bones grinding together. “I would never let it make you a monster.”

 

“Do you swear it?” His voice is weary, but his grip no less brutal. Barsad touches his brow with his free hand, smoothing his thumb across it, slowly.

 

“I swear it. Let me put you back together for us.”

 

Bane's grip mercifully loosens, and the blood rushes back to his hand, the numbness that had been building leaving it. He shakes it out for a moment before scrambling over to the table for the mask, all grace gone with the thought of stopping Bane's prolonged pain as quickly as possible. Bane's eyes are so cloudy still, a depth to them that is filled with pain and fear. At least he can alleviate one. He carefully straps the mask on again, latching it into place. His hands go to his shoulders.

 

“Breathe for me, brother.”

 

Slow, shaky breaths fill the air. It is a much better sound than the raspy pants of before. It will not clear away the toxins, though. For that, there is only time. His hands dig under Bane's arms. He has dragged him before, but now when he moves him, his brother thrashes out, striking against Barsad's arms. It is clear this is a task that will not be accomplished. Instead, he touches the mask gently, and kneels beside him.

 

“You have done well. I know it is hard to comprehend now, but you were admirable. You have proven yourself if not to our leader than to the entirety of the League.” Barsad had seen well enough the respect in their eyes as they left the room. Ra's would be wise to use it, though somehow Barsad doubts it will be the case. He doesn't try to hold Bane's hands. He doesn't dare, not trusting his fingers to not be crushed by a dangerous grip. Instead, he encourages him again to breathe. His own breath is rushed from him when suddenly Bane's fingers bite deep into his shoulders. He lurches forward with a sharp tug.

 

He is wrapped up in a tight hold and Barsad holds his breath and tenses, waits for it to become crushing or violent. It does not. Bane's hands dig into him but not to the point of pain. It is desperation, instead.

  
“Don't leave.” His voice is thin, a mix of pain and fear.

 

Barsad lays his head against his chest and forces his body to relax, to trust. “I won't. I promise.”

 

They lay there in the quiet hall for hours. There is only the sound of Bane's labored breathing in the still air as Barsad runs his hand in soothingly repetitive patterns across his arm. Eventually, Barsad falls asleep in Bane's grip.

 

____________________

 

Sunlight and shadow dapples over his skin, bespeckling him, making him feel warm, like he is drifting lazily, resting peacefully, more peaceful a sleep than he ever gets. He settles into the softness around him, sighing. His lips brush against smooth skin, and his brow furrows, confused, but he doesn't jerk away, he doesn't feel anxious. His eyelids flutter sleepily, and he is looking at pale, bare skin, strong, bulky. A hand curls around his waist, and finally, finally he sits up, rubbing his eyes.

 

“You're dreaming,” a lower voice to his side whispers, and he feels slender fingers squeeze against his ankle bone, reassuring.

 

“How do you know?” John's voice sounds far away in his own mind, hazy. Everything is hazy. He can see everything, but it's all a blur.

 

“Because I am dreaming. So, either you are just a dream, or you are dreaming with me.”

 

"That's stupid," he mutters, but is it? He feels good, better than he ever does when he's awake, not exhausted, not anxious, overworked, or stressed. It must be a dream.

 

He can tell the man beside him is smiling, amused by him, but he can't see his face. It's as obscured by smoke as much as his own body is coated in speckles of light. He hunches his shoulders. Great, even in his dreams, he's a joke.

 

Slender fingers suddenly move from his ankle to his shoulders, and then he's all wrapped up, the warmth increases, and he's being held. He hasn't been held in a long time, not since there was a smile on his father's face and his mother's gentle voice floating to his ear. If it weren’t a dream, he'd panic. Hell if he knows what to do with affection when it's found him. Now, he's just still, a scratchy chin suddenly rubbing the crook of his neck, ticklish whispers murmured out.

 

"I wish we could see you."

 

"You can't see me, either?” Go figure, he looks down at the heavy body curled in front of him, and it's the same as the other, his face is blocked off by dark, like he has been dipped into the shadows and they clung to him. "What's wrong with him?"

 

"He has been through an ordeal, a trial. And what of you, why are you hiding?"

 

"I'm not hi—" he stops, confused, as he looks down at his hands, sees how his strings are raveled and loose, pooling across his thighs, twining lazily all around the soft mat. He sees how they don't leave, not trailing off into the unknown. There's no reason to, they've found their other ends. He feels panicked then, apparently it can happen in dreams. It just takes this.

 

"You can't, you can't." He twists in the grip, suddenly. What if it isn't a dream, at all? Have they found him?

 

"Shhh." That smoky figure’s voice is too soothing. A touch to his stomach and he is still for him, a bundle of anger tamed for a fleeting moment. "Why are you hiding from us, my little string? We have worried for you."

 

He grits his teeth, sparking anew. "Don't call me that. I'm not your little anything. I'm not anyone's anything." He pulls out of that too-tempting grip then, stumbling over the soft floor, feeling it sink under his toes, sucking him down to his ankles. He plummets forward, arms flinging out to halt his fall.

 

Strong arms brace him suddenly, stop him when he closes his eyes tightly. "You again?" It's curious, and familiar and different, a voice he heard once in a dream, but now it echoes in his mind, and when his arms fly up protectively, he feels cool metal brush his fingertips. When they are gently squeezed, he yells, loudly, willing himself to just wake up. He needs to wake up. He doesn't need to feel protective fingers brush down his back, or to just barely be able to see into the darkness of that man’s face and find blue there staring back at him.

 

He screams to wake up, and it feels like something snaps, his vision wavering, and he is mercifully sucked out of this nightmare. He is awake and biting down into his knuckles to stifle the shouts that threaten to well up inside even when he knows the dream is over. A wave of nausea runs through him. Was it real? It had felt so real and so beyond anything he could comprehend, every bit as dangerous as he'd known it would be, a fucking trap, and it had taken nothing to pull him in. He could still feel the scratch of bristle over his neck, and arms holding him. He scratched, rubbed his arms, and willed it away, willed it to not feel so comforting.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

When Barsad awakes, he is back in their room, rubbing a hand over his face and staring into the small fire stoked in their brazier. Bane has already left to meditate, leaving Barsad to wonder to himself if the dream he has just had was merely a strange concoction of his mind or something deeper. It seemed so real, though. He can still hear the scared, angry shouts in his mind, the feel of his skin under his palms, his scent filling his nose. What does it mean?

 

Barsad shakes off the strange thoughts, the dream nearly forgotten after he washes, setting out to train. It slips his mind to even mention it to Bane as they spar together. The entire initiation is not spoken of again, nor the aftermath, put behind them as a quiet, private moment. Barsad feels the different atmosphere in the sparring rooms, though. The men are happy to be able to call Bane brother, even if it is done with an air of caution. None know how Ra's Al Ghul will treat Bane now, and perhaps that even includes Ra's Al Ghul, himself, who is barely seen for a span of days.

 

“I will not let him simply ignore Bane's usefulness,” Talia tells him firmly as they eat together. “He is one of the League’s greatest assets now, and he is being foolish.”

 

“Talia.” Bane sighs, and Barsad squeezes his leg.

  
“Hush, she is correct.” He shares a small smile with Talia, both of them pleased with themselves for quieting Bane even as Bane's brow furrows. The small meal is interrupted. A summons for all. Bane scrambles to fix his mask back into place as Barsad readies their outfits. Pride touches his heart as his hand traces down the new fabric that makes Bane’s.   
  
“No doubt it is my father's chosen one.” Talia's tone is bitter, her back to them as they change, as she refuses to leave.

 

“Respect, little one,” Bane reminds her calmly as he finishes. The warm wools look like nothing much, but they are different from the simple apprentice clothing he has worn before. Barsad swallows to clear his suddenly parched throat at the sight of him.

 

“Respect is earned,” Talia counters.

 

“Then allow him the chance to earn it,” Bane returns calmly. “You accuse your father of clouded judgment. Make yours as clear as freshly melted snow, in comparison.”

 

Her lips purse, but when Bane touches her shoulder, she nods. “I am going to hide and watch.” She knows well enough that Ra's will try to keep her sequestered away. Neither of them argue. Barsad even points out the best alcove to hide in, one small enough that it will not be used by another League member, perfect for her still-growing frame. It makes her eyes shine a little, pleased to be helped with her mischief. Barsad only sees it as fair.

 

“I do not need to tell you not to let yourself be caught, habibti.” It is Bane's only word of caution as he touches his thumb to her lips. She nods her head curtly, and leaves them with a flip of her slowly-growing braid.

 

They take their own places, disappear into the shadows, their true home, as the doors to the temple suddenly burst open. Barsad does not understand why Ra's bothers with the ruse of tricking this new man into not knowing their true leader. It is not as though this man looks like much, not to Barsad's eyes. His footsteps falter no less than any other who has made the journey. If this is to be the man to lead them in a cleansing purge, he is none too impressed, not that the decision is his to make. He knows that the three of them have all pressed their leader quite far enough in the last week or so. All have been avoiding his presence.

 

Barsad watches as Ra's strikes the man to the ground. It is nothing he has not seen before. He, too, felt it after he made the climb, their leader’s wisdom and scathing critique washing over him. Now, he casts his glance over towards the hidden corner, behind a large urn, a perfect spot for Talia.

 

He goes still. She is staring, her face near ashen. This young one, always so brave, he has never seen fear on her face before, and it strikes him to his core, near enough to break formation. To do so now would be folly, though. He must wait, not daring to catch Bane's eye, willing him not to see how Talia has shrunk back against the urn before quickly running off, her footsteps not heard over the commotion of the fight.

 

They are dismissed, and the man is curled on the floor, wet coughs forcing their way from his lungs.

 

Barsad's eyebrows nearly arch clean from his forehead when it is Bane who steps forward, past the emptying crowd, kneeling down. He reaches out and touches the man's trembling shoulder.

 

____________________

 

Barsad does not need to voice his surprise. It surrounds him like a thick cloud as Bane feels his presence behind him. It is sound logic, though. If this is Ra's Al Ghul's chosen one, then it is wise to know him before Ra's can unwittingly cloud his judgment. It is not kindness but simply practicality that leads him to grip the man's thick, soaked clothing and drag him back to the warmth of the sleeping rooms, rolling him onto an open mat and facing Barsad as he stands in the doorway, arms crossed and brow furrowed as he leans against the frame.

 

“If you are finished tending over the man Ra's saw as an excuse to excommunicate you...”

 

“It's Bruce.” The man says it as he uncurls slowly, lying on his stomach and stretching his gloved hands out longingly towards the lit brazier. Bane slides it closer with a booted foot and Bruce is fool enough to nearly shove his hands into it.

 

“Not so close.” Barsad sees it from the door and his voice snaps seriously. “Warm them from a distance, and do not rub them or be prepared to lose them. I am going to find Talia.”

 

“I will be there shortly.” He feels an irritation directed at him from Barsad when he does not follow straight away, but nothing is said, there is only a curt nod of his brother's head before he leaves the room, the door sliding shut silently.

 

He is not even certain why he stays. Perhaps he is driven with the need to understand, to comprehend what it is in this man, this boy, that Ra's sees.

 

What it is inside of himself that is lacking.

 

“Why are you helping me?” Bruce's voice draws him back to reality, stronger with the fire, tired still, though, with his eyes closed.

  
If Bane knew an answer to the question, perhaps he would tell him.

 

____________________

 

Barsad is not surprised to find her back in their rooms. It is the first place she goes when she is upset. Her face is pinched, and her arms curled around her knees as she stares into the fire.

 

“Talia, what did you see?” He asks it cautiously, sitting down beside her. She shakes her head. The fear he saw earlier is gone, or perhaps it is only masked. She is far too good at hiding her emotions, when she wishes to be.

 

“It was nothing, nothing at all.” She reaches for the tongs to feed another piece of coal into the small fire.

 

“Are we not friends, too?”  
  
She pauses at the question, the tip of the coal just touching the flame. She dips it in and watches it become consumed as she answers. “Yes... We are friends, Barsad.”

 

“Good. Today, I saw a friend, and she looked frightened. This friend, she is very brave. For her to look so scared, she must have seen something quite grave, indeed.”

 

She worries at her lip, setting the tongs down with a quiet cling and bringing her hand back up to her knee. “I am a child no longer, Barsad, you do not have to speak to me in such a way.”

 

“Not a child at all, Talia,” he agrees quickly. She is a woman, now, young, but grown in many ways. “But I want to help. I would like to know what frightened my friend so.”

 

Her breath draws in slowly and she stares down at her hands, only the soft popping of the fire making itself known for a span of time before she parts her lips to speak, voice hushed, barely a whisper.

 

“The thread on my hand. It leads up to him.”

 

“Wh—” Barsad blinks, eyes widening. He had never given it a thought. Talia has never once spoken of any strings on her fingers. He does not know what Bane has told her in the pit of them, but it cannot be good. But this, this _should_ be good. Finding a string, it is a joyous occasion... And yet he cannot imagine what this means for any of them.

 

“Talia...” he begins slowly. “That is not a bad thing—”

 

“The strings are _bad_ , Barsad.”

 

“And you don't speak of them,” he finishes for her, remembering the only discussion he has ever shared with her of them. “This is what Bane has told you of them. Is it all he has told you of them?”

 

Her eyes narrow cautiously. “What else could there possibly be?”

 

Where to even begin? “Perhaps... We should wait for Bane for this.”

 

She shakes her head quickly, and Barsad is suddenly trapped by her stern gaze. “Tell me.”

 

“Very well, but you must listen, keep an open mind, yes?” When she nods, he continues. “Bane told you the strings were bad to protect you... and because he believed the same for many years, though I do not think he feels the same, now, at least I hope.”

 

“He does not think them bad?”

 

“No,” he continues. “The strings... they are a helping hand from fate. They are meant to guide you to someone else in your life, someone who will be important to you, but in the pit, they were only a reminder of being trapped, so it was a painful thing to even speak of.”

 

“Important?” She shakes her head quickly. “No. If they were important, then they would lead to Bane, to you, not to this man I do not even know. This man who is just another tool my father wants to use.” Her lip curls and Barsad rubs his hands over his face.

 

“They do not lead to everyone important, only one or two people, people who you are fated to be with.”

 

Her eyes narrow and he can see this response pleases her little more.

 

“You mean as _lovers_. You are saying that the string thinks that man is to be my lover.” It is accusing, as if he has somehow tied the strings to their fingers himself, and he holds his hands up defensively.

 

“I am only telling you of them, Talia. I did not design them, myself. I do not control fate.”

 

“Fate is _wrong_. You are not with your string and neither is Bane so that mea—” She stops. It must be something on his face that has betrayed him, the earlier mention of it days ago in Ra's Al Ghul's chamber, pieces are clicking into place and Talia is staring at him, her mouth dropped open.

 

“Barsad!”

 

“What is happening?” Bane's voice cuts through the shock in the air as he slides the door open, looking down at them.

 

“What is going on _indeed._ ” Talia's voice is icy, and it only confuses Bane further.

 

“I was attempting to explain the threads of fate to her—”

 

“YOUR strings. Your strings are connected, aren't they?” She stands up, facing Bane, her tone accusing.

 

“They are,” Bane agrees slowly. “I thought to explain it to you... but it did not ever seem to come up between us... I told you so often that they were bad, that it felt wrong to tell you otherwise now.”  
  
“They _are_ bad.” Talia crosses her arms.  
  
“Talia—”

 

“No!” Her voice is more wavery than angry, and Bane sees that immediately, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close.

 

“It was not meant to be a secret from you, habibti. You know that we feel strongly for one another.”

 

She shakes her head, and is wrapped around him in return. “It is not that.”

 

“Then what is it?” he asks, his voice a soothing rumble as he rubs his thumb against her cheek.

 

“If yours were right...”

 

She is scared hers is correct, as well. This is not jealousy over theirs, it is worry over hers. Bane is understandably confused, and there is no sense in sugarcoating the discovery.

 

“Bruce. Her string leads to Bruce.”

 

Bane's entire body seems to twitch, a combination of shock and disbelief. “How can—”

 

“If I knew, I would certainly tell you, friend,” her lips purse and she does not let go of him.

 

“I do not understand this.” Bane's voice is troubled, and Barsad touches his shoulder.

 

“Fate is fickle, but it has shown us at least that, with the strings, it is not wrong.”

 

Bane shakes his head and rubs Talia's back. “You are under no obligation to see him, to speak to him. He needs not know. We will take the same actions.”

 

“You had no qualms with speaking to him before,” Barsad points out warily. Bane's brow furrows in response to it.

 

“You mistake a strategic act for compassion, and it is different, now.”

 

“I do not think I do, at all. You are kinder than the world deserves of you at times, and you are only being protective, now.”

 

“I have a _right_ to be protective.”

 

“Of course you do.” Barsad lays his head on his shoulder while Bane holds Talia still, listening to their argument. The muscles under his cheek are tense even when he rubs a hand slowly down his arm. “I know how you have felt about it... how you despised it for a time, but it is different for you now, isn't it?”

 

“Yes.” The quick agreement relieves Barsad, whose chest had tightened even asking the question. “But it is different. She is far too young.”

  
Talia opens her mouth, full of indigence, and Barsad takes over quickly before the conversation completely derails. “Some find one another early, some find each other as infants. It does not have to be more than that until she is older, but do not mistake her for a child still, she is young but a woman.” He bites his lip at the near grumpy look Bane's face takes on at the idea. This, he understands more. Bane is protective, and Barsad wraps his arms around them both, as far as they will go.

 

“All will be well.”

 

“You do not _know_ that.” The tone was near petulant, wary. Barsad is utterly charmed, unable to hold back his grin then, kissing Bane's shoulder in response even with Talia there.  
  
“I do not, but I can hope for it.”

 

“I won't hide, not in our home,” Talia says quietly, pulling away from their hold finally. “I will speak to him, and I will make certain he says nothing to my father.”

 

That is something that can _all_ agree on. None of them are even certain what Ra's would do with such information, but it is certainly for the best, if only for their leader’s peace of mind, that he is left in the dark about this.

 

“I will go along.”

 

“Bane, no. That is the worst possible idea,” Barsad says quickly, and Talia is relieved at the interjection on her behalf. Bane's eyes narrow.

 

“I do not see why.”

 

“Of course you do not.” Talia shakes her head. “I will be alone for it.”

 

“Then you best do it now, while others are out training.” Barsad ignores the slightly put off look from Bane for suggesting it.

 

“We will at least escort you, habibti, introduce you.” He taps his fingers over her mouth when she tries to protest. “This I insist on.”

 

She rubs her mouth, but she is not the only one who can be stubborn, and it is clear that on this subject Bane is immutable. They go quickly, and Barsad wonders what the frostbitten boy will think when he sees Bane and himself again, piling into his room with Talia in tow.

 

Barsad is mildly impressed to see that the boy is sitting up, not slumped or passed out in exhaustion, studying the fire. His head turns quickly to the door, and he is surprised to see them back again as he cups his hands and breathes into them slowly. His mouth opens to speak, and Barsad can tell just by the look of him that it will be something fake and plastic coming out of his mouth. The boy is in rags, but somehow he still has the look of someone who was born with good fortune to spare. Barsad has little patience for it. His hand slices through the air in a quick movement to hush him.

 

“There is someone here for you to meet. Be respectful.” It is as good of an introduction as any, and Talia hardly gives him time for more. She slips past Bane, her face steeled and serious as she stands over Bruce. Bruce whose eyes narrow slightly, not understanding, at first. He looks over her and then it is clear something catches his eyes. They look downward, to her hand, and then across the floor to his own. His hand opens and closes reflexively, his mouth open at first to retort is now slack, his eyes soft and unguarded. It is a better look for him, a more honest look, and with it Barsad feels as if perhaps fate is not so terribly mad, after all.

 

He touches Bane's arm who is watching so closely as Talia crouches down, sits beside Bruce and nods to him in greeting. He must pull slightly, shaking his head at the effort it takes to convince Bane to leave quietly. Outside of the room, the door finally shut, he will not budge.

 

“I will be here for her when she is ready to leave.”

 

“Fine, fine,” he concedes. In all honesty, he would rather stay, as well, even though it looks as though Bane is trying to bore holes into the door with his eyes so that he might see through it. It is too low to discern what is being said, but Barsad can hear quiet conversation being exchanged. His own curiosity is piqued enough, and he is sure Bane's must be threatening to devour him utterly.

 

When she finally steps out of the room, there is a small smile on her lips before she glances up to see them, pursing them in amusement.

 

“I should have guessed that you would be out here still, spying.”

 

“Not spying at all,” Barsad promises seriously. “How did it go?”

 

“It was... He is very stupid, in many ways.” She presses her lips together, holding back a soft laugh. “But... he is interesting.”

 

Bane wants to know more, Bane wants to know _everything._ Talia is spared only by Barsad's insistence that it is growing to be late, that she needs her rest as do they. Barsad only makes sure that she had sworn Bruce to secrecy before he coaxes Bane back to their room, watching the tension in his body even as he works on the fire.

 

“I do not like this,” he finally says as he rolls out their mats together.

 

“So I gathered, brother, but we are hardly in the position to change it. We must simply work to make this into a good thing, a good situation.”

 

“How?” Bane stretches out, and Barsad does not miss how clear it is that he is waiting for him to lie with him, not settled fully, not until Barsad lies out, then an arm goes over him, and _then_ they are settled in for rest.

 

“We make certain that Bruce is good to her. We, as we have, stay together and work together.” He sighs at the touch of Bane's fingers to his hair. “I think that you should help to train him, or perhaps both of us.”

 

The fingers stop instantly. “Surely you are joking.”

 

Barsad laughs and curls towards him more, fondly plucking the strings on his hand, one and then the other. “I am not. It is a good way to learn of him, and to teach him properly, is it not?”

 

“Ra's Al Ghul will hardly want us tainting his chosen one,” Bane points out after a moment of quiet thought, though Barsad notices that it is not a no, only a protest.

 

“He hardly likes us near Talia.” Barsad places a light kiss to his chest, hearing the slow breath taken in from the act. “But she goes to us, and she is trained none the less.”

 

“Talia wants to be with us, and trained by us.”

 

“And we will simply have to be certain that Bruce wishes for the same.”

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Bane does not like this. He does not like it at all, especially when the idea is so sound that he knows it is only his protective heart that is making him protest. He had been willing to treat Bruce as a brother, before, but now, as he walks into the training room, he feels an ache in his hand he squeezes it so hard.

 

Barsad touches his curled fist, leaning in to whisper. “Save it for training.” There is a quick squeeze to it before Barsad leaves his side, striding up to Bruce with ease.

 

He is surprisingly alone, looking somewhat unsure what to do with himself quite yet, not fully whole from his journey, but certainly well enough to be mangled properly with training. Barsad offers it to him. He picks up an armful of the bo staffs from against the wall, and tosses one to Bruce, who raises his hand, catching it midair with a snap of his wrist, his head tilted cautiously.

 

“Come train with us.” It is called out pleasantly enough as Bane is tossed the next staff. Barsad twirls his own in the air with a skilled ease. “We will see what Ra's Al Ghul has been given to work with.”

 

“More than you seem to think.” It was said cockily, and Barsad raises his brows, his mouth ticking up into a smirk at the challenge.

 

“And less than you seem to realize,” he answers in turn, holding his staff out for a moment before attacking.

 

Bruce falls into a defensive position, sloppy. It is clear he is not used to weapons. He is used to using his body, his fists to defend and attack, a weapon is completely out of his element. It is a feeling that Bane knows well. He felt it strongly during the early days of his training, and even now, when given the choice, he will pick his body as his weapon, even understanding the importance of mastering every tool available.

 

He watches as Barsad's stick slices through the air and snaps sharply against Bruce's forearm, making him wince sharply, the smack heard throughout the training room. He rolls back on the mat and fumbles his weapon. Barsad punishes him by bringing the edge of his bo staff down over his knuckles, the sharp pain of it making a choked noise leave him.

 

Bane steps onto the mat with him, and Barsad's sudden swing of his staff is deflected by his own, making Barsad's brows rise in surprise, but there is a secret delight in them that Bane has stepped in. “Your weapon must be thought of as an extension of yourself,” he tells him, as Barsad yanks his staff back, swinging through the air and attempting to catch his ankles. He grunts and jumps, feeling the whoosh of air under his bare feet.

 

“You cannot drop it, and you must work with it, or it will always be a hindrance to you. Like so.” Bruce's eyes were on him as he swept his own staff out, a resounding clash of wood against wood vibrating through the staff and to his knuckles. “Shadow my movements.”

 

Bruce shifts his body quickly with a snap of his head, his staff raised beside him. Barsad attacks Bane, and Bane deflects it. As the same move is echoed against Bruce's staff, Bane nods in approval when he sees how his movement has been impressively mirrored. Perhaps he is not so poorly chosen, after all. He says the words aloud, as a jest, and he laughs quietly at the sudden look of surprise on Bruce's face, his hands gripping his weapon tighter, his body working harder. He is thirsty for guidance, it is easily seen, and is no wonder that Ra's has noticed it, too.

 

When sweat pours from him, and his body is covered in bruises, Barsad declares he would like to smoke. It is a habit that Bane hardly approves of, but he understands the occasional indulgence of it. They step out into the cold, and the sweat on their body threatens to freeze in moments. Bruce shivers, but they are well used to it. Barsad's fingers do not tremble as he slowly rolls his cigarette, tongue dipping out to wet the paper before he closes it and tucks it between his lips. The flame kisses it, and he takes a slow, deep lungful, holding the cigarette thoughtfully as he blows out a stream of smoke.

 

“Did you look for her?” he asks, and Bruce stares, not having expected the question. Bane finds himself just as surprised at himself, watching as Bruce stares out into the snow of the mountains for a moment, reaching for Barsad's cigarette and taking a slow drag from it, warming his lungs with tobacco smoke.

 

“I didn't know she was alive. I thought I was alone,” he finally answers, smoke swirling around his head. “She never pulled, not once.”

 

“She had reasons for that. I am sure you will know them, in time. The question is, if you had felt her, would you have searched for her? Or perhaps the true question is, now that she is here, what will you do?”

 

“How am I supposed to know that?” Bruce gives back the cigarette. His hands comb through his hair, brown locks tangling with calloused fingers. “I didn't come here for that. I came to find the means to stop injustice. I came to make the world better. I didn't come to find _her._ ” The last word leaves his mouth with a touch of whimsy to it, like there is gold on his tongue just speaking of her.

 

“But you have.” Bane's tone is firm, stern, protective. “You understand why we must know what this means for her.”

 

“I don't know what you want me to do.” Bruce's voice turns rougher, irritated, cornered. “Do you expect me to just give up my mission and settle down with her somewhere?”  
  


Barsad barks out a sharp laugh at the notion. “Is that what you think, golden boy? You think that Talia would ever want that? No. Her first thought will always be the cause, not you. She would expect no less of you. But your other thoughts, the ones that will haunt you sweetly at night, those we expect to be of her. _Respectfully_ of her.” He raised up two fingers and tapped them to Bruce's chest in warning.

 

Bruce stares down at his fingers for a moment, his gaze hardening before the cloudiness in his eyes clears for a moment, a short moment where they can see the child hidden away, the boy that had been hurt and driven far away from his home into deadly and dangerous mountains to learn the art of death.

 

“You're giving me the talk. The dad talk, right?”

 

“We are not Talia's fathers.” Bane's brow furrows and Barsad laughs again. It makes Bane stop. Bruce is right. They are, and it seems like such a silly thing, when it is pointed out. When it was so clear that Talia was strong enough to take care of herself. Still...

 

“We give it because her father must not know. I doubt you wish Ducard to know that his only daughter's string is attached to your finger. I doubt your training would go very smoothly,” Bane says. It is half a warning, half a promise.

 

“I don't think it's going to go very smoothly now, actually.” The corner of Bruce's mouth quirks up ruefully.

 

“No,” Barsad agrees, smirking slightly. “It won't, but let’s not make it worse for you.”

 

It is a tentative agreement, but in the light of the sun, with the snow reflecting its rays onto them, they each exchange hands and private vows. This is their secret, and it is not for Ra's Al Ghul to know.

 

____________________

 

Barsad finds himself in the kitchen with Talia. Most meals are eaten with Bane in their room, private, others in the greater dining hall when they make an appearance with their brothers. This though, is just the two of them, having scrounged up leftover bread and cheese, making a small meal of it for breakfast. Bane left their pallet earlier than usual that morning to train Bruce. He has done so nearly every day since his coming to the temple. Barsad tries not to let that knowledge bother him, knowing how silly such a thing is.

 

“He is weaker than you,” she says bluntly as she slides a piece of crumbly cheese between her lips, chewing slowly. “I see you best him daily when you train him.”

 

“That does not make him weak,” he reminds her, tearing off a crust of bread. It is too dry on his tongue, though, and he sips some cool water to force it down. “It makes him untrained, now. He has potential. Your father would not have taken him in if he did not.”

 

“Sometimes I wonder if that is true.” Her eyes narrow thoughtfully, and Barsad tilts his head curiously.

 

“Then why would he?”

 

“Because he is rich. He has endless resources in Gotham city. Have you heard of Bruce Wayne? I had not.”

 

“Bruce Wayne—” He stops and blinks suddenly, cup still to his lips. “Certainly he is not _that_ Bruce.” He has heard the Wayne name before. There are few who have not, flashing across the television when he used to watch it, slapped onto labels of different weaponry.

 

“He is. I researched him when I was told his full name. He is called 'the golden prince of Gotham', so I have heard.”

 

“He is, yes, but why does that matter? The League has always found its funding in various ways.”

 

Talia nods seriously in agreement. “The League has much, yes, but think of what it might do with that technology. With those endless resources at its disposal, the machines, the weaponry, the pharmaceutical plants, all in my father's hands.”  
  
“And you suspect that this is truly why your father sought him out.” When Barsad hears it, he cannot help but wonder if it is true, if Ra's Al Ghul saw nothing in this boy but a pawn. For some reason, the idea does not sit well with him. He has seen promise, himself, in training, fierce dedication to the shaping of his body and mind... for it all to simply be about his money, his birthright... it sickens him.

 

“You are not as privy to my father's plans as I,” Talia points out carefully. Her eyes glance across the empty room, and she leans closer, slipping her hand over his as she speaks in a hushed voice. “I will not say everything, but I will tell you, Barsad, that access to Wayne pharmaceuticals, to his advanced weaponry systems, prototypes, his connections and clout... It would suit my father's plans _very_ well, indeed.”

 

“You seem very certain of this,” Barsad says after a moment of quiet thought, a sip of his water to clear the bad taste from his mouth. “And you seem concerned. May I ask why? Does it not suit our plans for this to transpire? Even if the means to do so are slightly clouded?”

 

Talia's lips purse at the question, and she withdraws her hand quickly, sliding it back under the table to her lap. “It simply does not feel right.”

 

“Talia...” He smiles gently as her eyes are suddenly focused intently on their food instead of him. “You like him.”  
  
“He is... an interesting man. Childish, at times, like he does not understand that others suffer as he did, worse still, thinking that his means more because he was young and there when it happened... I quickly quashed such a notion.” She shakes her head, but even that is said almost with a trace of fondness, like she finds his naiveté to hold a certain charm. “He does wish to do good, though. His search for justice is like our own... I do not wish to see him simply used.”

 

“That is reasonable.” Barsad nods seriously. “I cannot say for certain if that is your father's plan... But Bane and I, we are training with him, and his promise increases daily. If Ra's now sees him as only a money pawn... he will soon see he is worth much more than that. He will pass training even if we must carry him through the trial ourselves.”

 

His reassurance puts the smallest of smiles on Talia's lips, and Barsad leaves her with a light, playful flip of her braid to check on Bane. He finds him, limbs tangled with Bruce on the floor, Bruce groaning as Bane leans over him, his leg over Bane’s shoulder.

 

He clears his throat quietly, and reminds himself that there is no sense in the sudden flare of jealous he feels over Bane helping Bruce to stretch his hamstrings, nor is there any reason for his cock to suddenly twitch in the soft cotton of his pants. With this new training with Bruce, the trials of Bane's final initiation, Barsad has found himself in Bane's arms each night, and it has been a tender hold, but it has been nothing more than that. Part of him is worried about pushing too hard, that all of their careful progress has been undone with the recent trials, but his body is quick to remind him of his needs in a way he finds to be cruel. He crouches down and tangles his fingers into Bruce's hair, yanking it sharply with a little malice to distract himself. It gets a wince, and Barsad snorts when he looks more confused than angry. It takes most of the fun out of being spiteful.

 

“We are upping your training, today. We have been too easy on you.”

 

That earns an uneasy laugh. “If you can get me to stand longer, then I'll do it, but the body can only take so much.”

 

He has a point. They've dragged him back to his pallet on more than one occasion, but now it feels different, like there is something here to prove, like there was once something to prove with Bane. Bane, who sets down Bruce's thigh, and has a curious look to his eye, wondering of this sudden idea of a new training regimen.

 

“If you cannot stand to train, you will crawl. If you cannot crawl... well, you will wish you had the energy to escape us, then.” The words are clipped and matter of fact. He stands and holds his arm out, curling his hand, beckoning. The time to speak is over, and when Barsad attacks Bruce with his bare hands, it is a full out assault. Nothing is spared, everything must be learned.   
  
Bruce takes it all admirably. It is only Bane who finally lays a hand on Barsad's shoulder. He squeezes it lightly, fingers growing damp with the gleam of sweat there. “Time for a break, brother.”

 

“Death does not allow for breaks,” Barsad argues, swinging his arms out and flexing his muscles to loosen them for the next bout.

 

“And lunch fuels a body more than words,” Bane points out, not at all swayed. “Eat with me?”

 

Barsad finds himself tensing, mildly annoyed that Bane has so clearly taken Bruce's side in this matter. “Very well. If you are hungry,” he says, watching Bruce peel himself from the floor.

 

“I don't need to eat. I'm ready.”

 

“You _will_ eat,” Bane interrupts, his tone brooking no argument. It makes Barsad reluctantly freeze as he is ready to take Bruce's challenge. “Both of you, come join us in our meal.”

 

Barsad's eyes flick over to Bane, unsure he has heard properly, as Bruce nods, nearly hobbling over to take a towel and briskly rub the sweat from his body. “He is quite capable of finding his own meal.”

 

“Of course. There is no reason for him to not eat with us, though.”

 

Barsad opens his mouth. There are many reasons. That is their time, time with just them and Talia. It is time that Bane is exposed, vulnerable. It is not a time for trespassers, ones who have been taking up all of Bane's time, as of late. He snaps his mouth shut without a word, knowing exactly how ludicrous all of his thoughts will sound out loud. Did he not want this? Was he not the one who said to train Bruce, and did he not just promise Talia they would be certain he was ready for trial? Of course he did, but jealousy was not a rational thing, and he feels it worming through his heart as Bruce walks back slowly to join them. He follows them to the kitchen, to their room, balancing bowls of a thick bean stew and warm, brown rice.

 

He sits where Talia usually does, and Barsad can tell he is at least a little curious. All are. He steels himself, ready to deliver a blow to Bruce's jaw that will surely shatter it into pieces if he says even one wrong word when the mask is lifted. He is still capable of training with his mouth wired shut. In fact, it may be preferable.

 

He says nothing, though. His eyes take in scars, and his hand goes to his own bowl, scooping rice into his mouth with bites of stew. Barsad likes this shared meal no more for it, but at least he can relax for it, now. Little is said, when they talk to Bruce it is about training, always training, and nothing more.

 

Or so he thinks.

 

“Did you finish it?”

 

“I did. You were right, I liked it, for the most part. I'll send it back with Talia, tonight.”

 

“What's this?” Barsad tries to sound only slightly curious, sure that he fails in the task monumentally.

 

“I lent him one of my books. I have found that, along with training, it is wise to keep one's mind sharp, and many of the ones that you have given me contain English alongside the Arabic.”

 

He has been giving Bruce his books. Perhaps he would like to invite him to share their mat and sleeping warmth, next. He bites his tongue. Not _giving,_ merely lending. He knows in his heart it is different, but it is a hard thing to remember when Talia leaves that evening, sliding into Bane's hand a well-worn copy of The Odyssey, and telling him that Bruce gives his thanks.

 

He watches her go, and there is tension bubbling under his skin, threatening to whistle out of his body like a kettle. Bane notices, of course he does. He has become well versed in reading his body, at times more than Barsad would like. When they seat themselves on the mats before bed, Bane is studying him, his palms resting flat on the ground, his position slightly reclined.

 

“What is it, brother?”

 

He shouldn't. He knows it is stupid, but when it is asked, the words tumble from him. “What were you thinking? What reason could you have had to invite him to share a meal with us?”

  
“I am not sure what you mean,” Bane asks, and god help Barsad, because he truly is not. His gray eyes are filled with no guile, only genuine confusion.

 

“You invited him to eat with us.” Barsad cannot stand how there is almost petulance in his tone.  
  
“I did. It made sense, did it not?”

 

“Why? There was no need.”

 

“Because he is Talia's. It is wise to keep him close... Why does it bother you?”

  
“It doesn't.” He says it quickly, too quickly. It does bother him, and the maddening thing is that he knows it is foolish, ridiculously so, but it still coils around his heart and makes his lips press together in a thin line.

 

“Is it the mask?” Bane's voice becomes slightly tentative, and his hand drifts to it. “You think he should have not have been subjected to it? The other brothers saw it during my trial. I thought it might not be so bad a thing...”

 

The words crush the feelings in his chest like they are made of paper. They are replaced with regret, with shame. He takes Bane's hand quickly and draws it away from the mask. He gently kisses over the scarred knuckles there, willing away the thought. “No, no, Bane. I am sorry to have made you think that. It is not that, at all. I was... I was being jealous.”

 

“Jealous?” His brows knit together. The thought of being jealous because of him, it clearly baffles him, and it makes Barsad lean far forward to kiss one of those pale brows.

 

“Yes. I like having you to myself, you realize? You are my string, not his... at times I am foolish.”

 

“But you wished for us to train him, to give him a chance for Talia... I was only doing what you wished of me.”

 

It is so achingly sweet that Barsad kisses him again for good measure, lips pressing to the exposed flesh of his cheek. “I know. I was stupid. I am sorry.”

 

“You are very confusing, at times.”

 

“I know, I know.” A small laugh bubbles out of his lips. “I am still new to this, to getting along with another like this. Forgive me?”

 

Bane tilts his head quietly, thoughtful for a few moments. “We are still both very new... you were jealous?” He asks it softly, and there is curiosity there, the sweetest tinge of almost shyness... He likes the idea, just a little, Barsad realizes, and he almost smiles. He likes the idea that someone cares about him enough to become jealous.

 

“So jealous,” he affirms seriously, kissing his cheek again. When it is not rebuffed, he places a light kiss to the grate of the mask, feeling tingly, cool breath over his lips. “I was ready to slit his belly for taking up so much of the time that I wanted to spend with you.”

 

“Our leader would have been most upset.” Bane says it seriously, but his eyes lower, and there are suddenly thick, warm fingers carding through Barsad's hair, over his scalp. His own eyes close and he lets his body melt back into the touch. Something has changed in the room, the air feels different as Bane's fingers creep down the back of his neck. They draw circles there, and it is the most intimate they have been since the trials. Barsad's breath rises faster in his chest in response to it. He swallows, his throat suddenly dry.

 

“He would have, yes... but he would have to endure. For this, this is my string, is it not?” Barsad let his hand touch Bane's forearm, drawing it from the chilly floor to rest on his own chest. His fingers touch the knot gently tied to Bane's pinky.

 

“It is.”

 

“Good.” The corners of his mouth turn up, and a fleeting pant of ridiculous giddiness wells up in him. It makes him feel silly, and for a moment he simply buries his face in Bane's chest, hiding the widely growing grin against his skin. Bane's hand is trapped between them, then, and it takes Barsad a moment to notice that it is fidgeting nervously, that Bane's breathing is less even of a rush through the mask.

 

“You can touch me, if you'd like.” He leans in as close as he dares to whisper it against Bane's mask, a promise that it will be ok if he does, that there is nothing to fear in that. “I would like it very much if you did.”

 

Bane swallows so roughly that it is near audible, the sudden bob of his throat, and slides his hand out from between them. Barsad is ready to draw back, accepting defeat for the evening, but he stills when Bane's fingers go to his cheek, when the callused side of his pinky brushes oh so hesitantly to the corner of his mouth. Perhaps he is not the only one who has missed the growing intimacy between them, what was interrupted before.

 

“I do not... I do not know how.” It is said with regret, and more importantly it is honest, not a mere brush off. Bane would simply say no if he did not wish it. This is not that, and Barsad's heart near flutters in his chest before he forces himself to calm and answer.

 

“But you do. You have seen me do it so many times, have you not?”

 

“It is—I would do it wrong. My hands are not made to touch others.” He sounds unsure, though, and Barsad shakes his head, brushing away such a foolish notion.

 

“They are made to touch _me_. Let me...” He holds Bane's hand in his own and admires it, how his own feels smaller holding it, the rough calluses of training, the thick fingers that are long and surprisingly graceful in ways he is sure others miss. Bane does not stop him, not when he draws his fingers to his neck. It is a sensitive spot, kisses, bites, hot licks of tongue are all welcome here, but Bane does not have that to give, and so be it. Barsad is more than happy to do away with it all when Bane's nails touch there, when they run the gentlest of trails down to his collarbone. Barsad closes his eyes. He shivers, feeling his body stir in a way that feels different from his own self touches, from what is shared in the League.

 

“Bane, please.” He whispers it hopefully, longingly, and perhaps Bane finally understands just how wanted his touch is, because his hands do not leave.

 

It is far from perfect. There is the hasty drawing up of his shirt, catching his arms up in it like a schoolboy, he is so eager. Bane tries to help, and Barsad falls forward against his chest. They freeze and they laugh, the sudden spell between them not broken, only strengthened as Barsad scrambles with the rest, kicking out of pants, and nearly jamming his knee onto the freezing stone beside the mat, too scared he will miss this chance, too worried that he will accidentally spook Bane if he moves wrong. He is torn between kneeling and lying down.

 

Bane makes the choice for him. His wide hand holds his forearm, pulling him forward. “I have thought of holding you.” From Bane, even such a simple, sweet intimacy is almost a lurid confession, and Barsad wastes no time. He is in his lap, sprawled out happily, back to chest. Bane is so warm, heat that he has felt against him many nights now, but it feels different. That warmth soothed and brought sleep, this is a furnace, and it makes his own breathing heavier, it makes him swallow and crane his head up as Bane's fingers are suddenly on his throat.

 

“Like you do?” Bane's voice drifts down to him, heavy on his skin, but a touch unsure. He bobs his head quickly.  
  
“Yes, just like that, please—Ahh.” His words are cut off when warm palms touch his chest, when they pet over his body tenderly. It is not at _all_ like what he does. The same places are touched, his chest, his belly, his thighs, but that touch it is all wrong, not the quick strokes of his own hands, the twists of his skin to pluck pleasure from it. This is reverent, this is Bane's hands worshiping his skin, his entire body.

 

Nothing has ever felt more terrifying or more wonderfully right.

 

“ _Bane_.” He whispers his name, and it sounds near choked already when the rough skin on Bane's fingers catches at his nipple, making him arch, making his skin feel like it has been electrified.

 

His fingers still, uncertain. “I should stop?”

 

“N-no, please don't.” Barsad downright squirms, feeling ridiculous for it, but it gets him his way, it gets gentle scratches of Bane's nails down his belly, and soft pets to his thighs that make them want to quiver. He spreads them further, sprawls himself out open-legged in Bane's lap, somewhat hopeful even knowing that it might be too far. Instead, a shaky sigh runs through him as Bane's fingers tentatively sweep up his cock. Gentle but rough fingers catch on the sensitive skin there and make Barsad hiss out, a shock of pleasure that he wants repeated and gets when Bane's hand wraps slowly around him, encompassing his length in a heated grip.

 

Slow, steady pulls. They make him feel like he is going mad, and yet he doesn't want them to ever stop. His fingernails dig into Bane's arm, and he is rocking into that wonderful touch. He closes his eyes, teeth biting down into his bottom lip to hold back a whine when he feels himself leaking out. He hears the curious noise Bane makes, feels the slow sweep of his thumb against the tip of his cock, exploring, playing.

 

“B-Bane you are going to drive me mad.” He hates the whine that still manages to drip from his tone. Bane's hand stills, and then a low chuckle rumbles through him, vibrating up through Barsad's bare body, as well.

 

“I am sorry, brother. I was simply curious.” His hand blessedly becomes firm again, wetter from Barsad's own precome, its grip less rough, and Barsad cannot keep his hips still any longer. He rolls them forward slowly, as cautious an experiment as he can manage when his body is screaming for him to fuck into Bane's hand. When he is not rebuffed, when Bane's breathing is suddenly puffing against his ear, excited, aroused, he can no longer resist. He pushes forward, gasping, the channel of Bane's hand feeling ridiculously perfect in a way nothing else has. He has always heard that it is better between strings, and always thought it to be a silly notion. Sex is sex. It feels good. How could it be different with strings?  
  
He has never felt more a fool. Being pressed against Bane, his scent, his touch, he feels near drunk, hazy with the pleasure of his warmth and the closeness of his skin, the clear desire rolling off of his brother's strong body, the care in his hands, working not for his pleasure but because he enjoys seeing Barsad have his own. Barsad, in turn, is shaking, leaking out shamefully into Bane's palm as he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, rutting harder into Bane's hand, so close to losing himself.

 

“Let me see it, brother.” Bane's voice is a catalyst, the thick tone of it, the desire in it undoes him, and Barsad arches in his hold, his neck back and his throat exposed, his body vulnerable in all ways as pleasure pulses through him, and he loses himself with a choked cry into Bane's hand.

 

“Ah-ah…” Barsad sighs out, feeling the sweat cooling on his body in the chilly air even as he is still flushed and overheated inside. Bane's hand is holding him still, feeling the twitch of his cock as he spills more come between his fingers. Bane strokes it out of him, a gentle caress up his shaft feeling like it is milking the last of him before he shudders and relaxes against him, body feeling boneless and loose, sated. He is certain his grin is near giddy when a finger traces over his lips. He kisses it.

 

“That felt wonderful, brother.”

 

“Truly?”

 

“If I was lying, you would not need to be washing your hands before bed.” He laughed when the comment made Bane snort softly, going to do just that before he was pulled into his arms for rest.

 

“You will not let me watch you?”  
  
“No. Perhaps another night,” Bane answered, his hands feeling wonderfully possessive as he runs them down Barsad’s stomach. Barsad pats them lightly, and his fingers go to the string on his hand as they do so many nights now, light plucks, a gentle reminder that they are there. His mind flashes to the hazy, strange dream he had after Bane's trial, and he thinks almost to mention it, but it is so far forgotten, only on the fringes of his mind, that is seems silly to even bring it up.

 

The days are better, then. Bruce is shaping nicely, and Barsad feels less ire between them. He shares moments with him merely to speak, to converse.

 

“I can tell you nothing of the final trials,” Barsad tells him as they trek through the snow together, a long fight over the ice has left them both feeling frozen, though this time Bruce has managed to keep himself from the water. Barsad has heard of his first trip to them, watched how he could not stop shivering for the next two days. “I can only tell you that you are not ready, yet, but that I think you will be one day, and that they will make you question every part of yourself, but you will be stronger for them.”

 

“I feel like I'm ready,” Bruce argues, and Barsad shakes his head, considering knocking him into a snow pile.

 

“You most likely felt as though you were ready the second you stepped into the temple. You are too sure of yourself. Too sure you cannot fail.”

 

Bruce's lip almost ticks up until Barsad finishes, then his eyes darken. “I won't fail. I can't fail.”

 

“For justice, or for revenge?” He by now knows exactly what Bruce seeks here, and why. He can understand it, but he also knows that Bruce is of a different world than they, and he may always be so. “Both may take you places you may not wish to go.”

 

“I'm here, aren't I?”

 

“You are, but sometimes I feel like you aren't with us.” He glances around. Outside of the temple, away from prying ears, Barsad is more blunt with Ra's al Ghul's 'chosen one'. Both he and Bane have noticed it in training. Bruce is beginning to become deadly with his precision, yet he lacks the courage to deliver even in training what would be considered a killing blow. “Like, when it comes down to the final line, you will not be at our side, covering us.” He holds his hand up, knowing what he is saying is harsh but honest. “I say only what I feel from your training.”

 

“We protect one another.” Bruce says it without hesitation. It is an idea he has latched onto quickly, something that does not surprise Barsad. Now that he has found a group to call his own, he has quickly absorbed the notion of keeping it safe.

 

“We do,” Barsad agrees. “More than that, we are a force for justice. And at times, justice must be cruel.”

 

Bruce's eyes sharpen, focus on him for a moment before his head turns away. “I almost killed someone, once. I let my thirst for revenge almost take a life. I won't do it again.”

 

“This is not for vengeance. This is to bring balance to the world, to clear away the evil in it.”

 

“By killing. Who are we to decide who gets to live and die, Barsad?”

 

“You cannot spare everyone, Bruce. If you let a man go and he murders three others, those deaths are on your hands, not his. You chose to let evil free.”

 

“You don't know. You don't know if you show someone mercy, if they will kill again.” He says it with a desperate hinge to his tone, like this is not something he wishes to hear, but he must.

 

“You came here, Bruce… what did you think you would find? We are shadows, doing what is necessary. Do you think we simply rap people on their knuckles, and send them on their way?”

 

“I don't—”  
  
Barsad stops him with a swipe of his hand through the air. “This is something you must work through. At least part of you knew what you would find here. If you cannot do what is necessary, then I suggest you leave in the night and do not return, for it will not go well for you here, and it will be worse for Talia the longer you stay.”

 

“Talia...” It is with a wistful fondness that he says her name now. As if he has had no other name to treasure, before. Barsad understands it perhaps more than he should. It is why he says nothing when he sees the fond exasperated looks that Talia gives him, like he is just a boy in her eyes, younger than her in years, how there is a shine to Bruce's eyes when he watches her leave them, caught in the steady stride of her walk, the twirl of her braid. Now, though, he seems almost pained. “I can't just leave her.”

 

“Then this is something you must come to grips with. You cannot save the world without being willing to sacrifice your own innocence.”

 

“Innocence?” Bruce almost scoffs at the idea, and Barsad touches his shoulder before they step back into the temple.

 

“Innocence. Let me assure you that you are the only man here who has never killed, and that Ra's will never let you become a full brother without proving yourself.”

 

“You're saying he's going to make me kill someone.”

 

Barsad only rolled his shoulders, releasing Bruce. “I cannot tell you plans I do not know. I can only say what I know of our leader and guess. In any case, you are not ready. You must train more, as much as you can. With Ducard, with us.

 

Bruce keeps his voice quiet as they walk to the kitchen to warm at the cooking fire there. He is thinking of much, and Barsad can only hope that at least a small portion of what he has said is sinking into him. “I prefer training with you and Bane. I feel like I learn more.”

 

Barsad nods in approval. “Good. You are. Ra's Al Ghul is attempting to train you to become a brother. We are attempting to train you to be worthy of Talia.”

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

“I feel as though he will not be ready.” Barsad is worried, his lip sucked between his teeth as he cleans his rifle with care, each piece spread out on a cloth by their mat to be examined and cleaned. Training Bruce has gone on for some time now, and they all sense that it is drawing to a close. He is becoming formidable, able to knock Barsad to the ground, able to provide an even match for Bane. He is excelling, and with that comes the question of when Ra's will begin his final tests.

 

“It is not for us to decide,” Bane points out as he watches Barsad's nimble fingers work. “He is strong, now.”

 

“That is not what I mean. He lacks conviction,” Barsad argues, and Bane finds it hard to disagree. They have discussed it before. He has had long, heated debates on morality with Bruce, with Barsad and Talia often there as well to referee, or more often to argue with them. There are many times that Bane feels as though Bruce is beginning to see from their view. It is a harsher view than one raised in luxury is used to, but they are opening his eyes.

 

Perhaps, in some ways, he is making them question things, too. The debates are in no way one-sided, and they last long into the night. When is it right to kill a man? Several? A group? The ways of the pit are so different, killing done for so many different reasons, that neither Bane nor Talia have ever thought of when it might be avoided, only when it must be done. Barsad is often the same, so long a soldier and then a brother that death is part of life. None have ever thought it would be something for them to question.

 

“What will happen if he fails the trial?Banishment, as it was for me?”

 

“I feel that depends on how angry Ra's Al Ghul will be about wasting his time and not getting what he wishes out of him.” Barsad snaps his rifle back into place, and runs an approving hand over the muzzle. “In any case, it will not be good... and I have seen others die from the trials, overcome by their fears.”

 

“You are afraid he will die.”

 

“For Talia, yes. It would hurt her.”

 

Barsad is right, and Bane has eyes. He can see how each day the pair draws a little closer to one another. In the evenings, he sees how Talia's hand drifts over towards Bruce's during their meals, touching his when she thinks none are looking. When Bruce glances over, it is with an almost tentative shyness that his thumb often curls to brush over her fingers in turn. Bruce is hers, and there will always be a twitch of protective spirit in his heart over such a thing, but he can see it more with each day. At this point, were he to be suddenly ripped from her, it would be heartbreaking.

 

“Only for Talia?” Bane asks after a moment, and Barsad sets down his newly assembled rifle carefully, glancing over.

 

“It would... be a shame for him to die,” he admits after a moment, and Bane finds himself nodding in agreement. Any misplaced jealousy that Barsad once found in his training of Bruce has long since vanished, and at times it feels as if there can be no greater thrill than the four of them sparring together, in pairs, all against one, and when they are feeling particularly vicious, all of them against one another. Most clear out of the training room at that time.

 

“I feel the same, but we can only do so much for him. We can guide, but his path must be his own,” Bane says, and he waits until Barsad's rifle is away before letting the matter be done. “No more good will come from discussing this tonight.” He takes a breath before he walks over to sit closer to him, touching his fingers to the smooth, compact muscle of his arms and shoulders.

 

“Will you lay with me?” Bane must work himself into asking, though he knows the answer will be yes. Each time he has managed it, it has been an enthusiastic yes, indeed. He cannot see it, but he can certainly feel Barsad's sudden grin, the loosening of his muscles under his fingertips as he leans back into his hold.

 

“Oh, I would like that, brother.” He breathes the words out, and daring fingers reach backwards to touch Bane's thigh. To allow him to touch him with desire... Bane is still cautious. It feels good, for his fingers to stroke a little circle against his leg, a slow path up his thigh that makes his body tingle, but too much has him taking Barsad's hands and squeezing them, a gentle signal to stop. He does. It is what allows Bane to explore... to push further, the knowledge that Barsad will always stop, that he wishes Bane's pleasure, that he will not hurt him with this intimacy. It still daunts him that this touch can feel good, that it does not have to be soiled with memories of the past.

 

Barsad turns in his hold until his blue eyes are focused on him, lidded and wanting. Any time Bane has mustered up the will to admit his desires, it has made Barsad instantly playful, hungry. “What shall we do, brother?” He touches his shoulders lightly, smoothness of his fingertips running down his biceps, his forearms. He licks his lips, like Bane is a feast to be taken in. “Will you let me touch you, today?”

 

He has, now. In the night, Barsad's fingers had gone to his hip, he had placed the sweetest of kisses to his collarbone and asked him if he could stroke his cock, if Bane would grant him the same favor. He had. It had been breathtaking and terrifying, to feel those skilled fingers dance over his shaft, to tease his head until Bane's belly had clenched with pleasure, until he was groaning, spilling into his slicked palm. Barsad had looked utterly satisfied with himself, more so when Bane's hand found its way to his own cock in return, touching over it until Barsad was wantonly rolling his hips for him, moaning out and kissing his shoulder.

 

Now when Barsad's forehead touches his, when his lips touch to the grate of the mask, as if he would kiss him if he only could, Bane finds himself nodding quickly. Truly, his brother is to blame for his body now so quick to boil hot at his touch, at the promise of what is to come.

 

When Bruce receives his blue letter, he goes to Talia first, and it is as a pair that they go to Bane and Barsad with the news of it. Bruce feels ready. He holds the letter and he is excited, not quite anxious, more eager, and too confident as always.

 

“Congratulations.” Barsad says it seriously as he looks down at the letter. “You should have spent the time preparing, though.”

 

“My father will not let me watch... I believe he is beginning to suspect something.”

 

“Hardly a surprise. You have become near inseparable,” Bane points out to her.

 

Talia purses her lips at such an accusation, but she shakes her head, her tone dry. “No. Were it only that, I think he would be pleased. He wishes he had a son, a grandson would make a suitable replacement for me.”

 

Bane's eyes narrow at the thought. “Surely that is not all he thinks of you. He loves you, habibti.”

 

“He loves the idea of me,” Talia says seriously. “The thought of having a daughter to call his own. He does not understand me, and perhaps he never will. He would be happy to try again with a grandson.”

  
Bruce clears his throat, looking as if he does not know what to do with such a frank discussion of Talia's ability to bear children. Bane is no more happy to be discussing it, and changes the topic quickly. “You think that he suspects something deeper?”

 

“I have seen him looking at my hands.”

 

“Would it be so bad for him to find out? Ducard knows that I believe in justice, and so do you. Our string doesn't change that.”

 

Bane thinks of what Barsad has spoken to Talia of. Of how this boy may simply be a tool for Ra's Al Ghul, a power play. Something to use and discard. Not even trusted enough to know his true identity still.

 

The idea of him being his daughter's soul mate seems like it may be something that would sit very poorly with him, indeed.

 

Talia shakes her head. “Trust me in this. I do not think it would go well.”

 

“We'll be more careful, then.” Bruce only nods, and Bane is pleased to see the deference there, the respect to Talia's thoughts on the matter. “I need to go get ready.”

 

Talia is left red faced when Bruce suddenly leans in to brush his lips against her cheek, his fingers touching under her chin.

 

“For luck.” He smiles, and it is brighter than it should be before a trial, genuine. Before he leaves the room, he gives a more serious nod to both himself and Barsad.

 

Barsad laughs. Talia smacks at his arm. It only makes him grin and touch the end of her braid affectionately. “All will be well, do not worry.”

 

She shakes her head quickly, the flush leaving her face. “Do not act like that. I know this for what it is.”

 

“Worrying will solve nothing,” Bane says, and after a moment she is in his arms, being held fast. His large hand cradles the back of his head. “He is strong. We have all trained him, have we not?”

 

“His body is strong.”

 

Bane nods. “As is his mind.” _But not his conviction._ It is not spoken, but the words are heard by all in the room. “Do you know what your father will do, if he fails?”

 

“He does not think he will fail. He is certain that the League has created the perfect machine for him to further his agendas.” She says it with a matter of fact bitterness to her tone. “Imagine how surprised he will be, if he is mistaken.”

 

“I feel he is mistaken either way,” Barsad says. “Pass or fail, he is not the tool your father wishes. He feels too much, still.”

 

When Talia leaves them, they ready in silence. Bane has not been through the initiation of another, but he knows how to move with his brothers, how to be as one with them in the shadow. They don their hoods, and stand together in a group, waiting for the signal.

 

“ _Breathe in your fears.”_

 

They rush into the room, a seamless army, ready to test Bruce, to push him to the brink of his capabilities, to see if he has the strength and determination to push back. Bane stands beside Barsad and he is glad for it. This initiation brings back bad memories that are not so distant. He thought he had felt fear in the pit, but it had been a pittance to what the strange flower could do, especially when it was coupled with the pain of his mask being removed.

 

He sees it in Bruce, now. The shake of his head, the twitch of his body, the tremble of his hands as he moves to the box and lifts it slowly. A shout leaves him as he is attacked by nothing and everything that plagues him, whatever it may be. He falls. It knocks the wind from him, and Bane watches as he twists on the ground, the gasps of fear that leave his body.

 

He is so terrified, Bane wonders if he might die from it.

 

Bane feels sympathy for it. It is a ritual that he would have been happy for none to witness, but they move in line as ordered, blocking off Ra's Al Ghul from sight, unable to assist or aid, though he feels a protective streak spring up in him. They have trained Bruce, have taken him under their wing, and to see him struggle like this and to do nothing, it is difficult. He wonders if Barsad felt the same during his own trial.

 

Bruce, though, he stands, and now Bane only feels pride. He sees him weave through them, the careful slashes made to the uniform of one of their brothers, a marker. It is clever indeed, and he knows that Barsad sees it, as well. It reminds him of his own... less than honest way of completing the trials. He has never spoken of it with Barsad, but he doubts Ra's Al Ghul would have accepted his trial completion if he knew that he had used his string to complete it. It was to be done without the help of another, but Bane has learned many things in the pit and now outside of it, and the lesson that seems to be repeated to him again and again in his own mind is that, without others, there seems to be little point in doing anything. That Talia and Barsad, and now perhaps even Bruce, are the reason he carries on, and their strength is felt behind him even when they are not with him.

 

He only hopes that, now, the same holds true for Bruce. It seems so, though. Bane feels as though he can hear his young heart racing with each gasp for air. But he is moving with an air of purpose, through the ranks, before slinking in between two brothers and disappearing so well that Bane is not entirely sure where he has gone to.

 

A smile pulls at Bane's lips, doubly hidden by hood and mask when Ra's Al Ghul thinks that he has caught him. Bane knows better.  
  
“You cannot leave any sign.” Ra's says it with the voice of a teacher, the air of superiority surrounding him like a cloying cloud.

 

“I haven't,” Bruce answers, and he is behind him, his deception has paid off, and his sword is poised for a deadly strike. Bane feels pride in his chest, and knows Barsad must feel it with him, that Talia will feel it, as well. The trial is completed. Bruce sways when he is applauded. With the adrenaline wearing off, he nearly falls to his knees. Barsad's hand snaps out, casually grasping his elbow as if it is nothing, shaking off the quiet, weak thank you Bruce gives for it.

 

“Think nothing of it, golden prince,” Barsad teases, but his voice is warm, kinder than it usually is outside of their room, soothing to Bruce who is still enduring the chemicals rushing through him and making everything into darkness and monsters. “Come now, you need to sleep it off for your grand finale.”

 

“I thought that was it.” Bruce sounds slurred, and Bane only shushes him, helps Barsad to guide him back to his pallet. The next day is nothing truly, only the brand that they all wear on their skin, marking them forever as members of the League until their death. It is no more tedious than Bruce standing still and enduring the hot kiss of metal to his skin. Unpleasant, yes, but not worse than what has been endured today.

 

Talia appears, and Bane can see the soft smile on her lips as she kneels down by the pallet. Bruce opens his eyes. His vision must be blurred, but he still reaches for her, and Bane does not miss how their fingers lace, how Bruce's finger slowly traces over Talia's, something to soothe him enough to sleep off the effects of the flower.

 

She sits when he sleeps, brushing a lock of sweat soaked hair from his forehead. “Was he admirable?” she asks, and Bane knows she hates to have not witnessed it, herself.

 

“Very.” Barsad settles down beside her, and is happy to tell her every detail of the event from his own perspective, not skirting around Bruce's weaknesses but not downplaying his strengths. He is honest, and Talia is clearly satisfied with the tale, envious, but satisfied.

 

“He is wrong to deny you the trial,” Bane says, touching her hair, knowing her thoughts.

 

“He seems to enjoy denying me things,” Talia answers softly, thoughtfully. “As if he thinks that this is what makes the role of a father, denial. I know better.” Her eyes meet his and she reaches to touch his mask. “Though I feel as if he never will.” She hesitates, and her eyes go to Bruce, to see if he is still sleeping soundly.

 

“I think if he had failed, I would have left with him. I think it would have only been right. Perhaps my father's way is not the only way to bring justice to the world... I would have been curious to see Bruce's way, as well.”

 

They say nothing. Time had disenchanted them all from their leader. He seems less of one each day, he seems less and less a legend, and more a simple man, one who leads with eyes that are clouded and lost in the past. Bane does not know what to say to Talia about such a thing.

 

He only knows that if she had left, he would have followed her, and with that thought he glances over to Barsad, feeling an ache in his chest, wondering if he would do the same. Their eyes meet for a moment, and in the safety of their little family, Barsad leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to the exposed skin of Bane's cheek.

 

“It would have been a strange thing, I think,” Barsad muses quietly, “for Bruce to suddenly find all of us following him away from the mountain.”

 

They sit with Bruce through the night. Talia leans against Bane, and his fingers find their way to her braid, playing with it as Barsad tends to the fire for them. Others come into the shared room, but they give the pallet a wide berth out of respect, not speaking, only settling down onto their own mats to rest. In the morning, Bruce is more withdrawn. There are few who enjoy the sensation of all of their fear being ripped from them, of being so exposed in front of others, and Bruce takes it worse than others. He looks raw. When Talia touches his wrist, he near flinches away, barely steeling himself to prevent it.

 

“You will receive the League’s mark, today,” Barsad tells him as Bruce sits up slowly, rubbing his hands together in front of the fire without a greeting. “It is painful, but simple. Then you are marked as part of the brotherhood until your dying days.”

 

“Looking forward to it.” Bruce says it quietly, and Talia takes his hand, drawing him out of himself, making his attention focus on her.

 

“I was told that you were admirable, that you conquered your fears.”

 

“I left them behind me,” Bruce agrees quietly. The room is empty now, others having left for breakfast and training. There is something on his tongue, and he hesitates until Talia squeezes his fingers. “But it feels like they're still with me,” he finally says, dark eyes staring into bright flame, sounding like he is uncertain if he has failed.

 

“Conquering them does not mean they have left you. It means you have surmounted them.” Barsad says it quickly with a glance down at his own hands before he is looking at Bane, looking at his mask. “You are simply stronger than them now, stronger than your past.”

 

It seems to ease whatever is holding onto Bruce's spirit. The dark locks falling into his face are brushed back by Talia's fingertips, the move sealed with a light kiss to his temple. “You have proven yourself worthy of the league... Do you really wish to mope here, or will to go and take the mark?”

 

Bruce glances at her, then shakes his head slowly, a small smile forming. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

 

Talia only shakes her head, rarely caring for apologies. “Go. I wish I could be with you.”

 

“You should be with me,” Bruce answers quickly, and all of them know it is true, but the branding is only to be witnessed by those already marked.

 

So Talia will simply have to sneak in to watch, as usual.

 

There is a mischievousness to her as she says it, and Bane feels a pang in his heart over how young it makes her look. He only shakes his head, not scolding. It feels as though he has no right to scold her for things, anymore.

 

Bruce is still tired, still dressed in the clothing of last night’s trial. Bane and Barsad are little better, but they flank him on either side as they walk into the grand room once more, towards the bowl of coals and the hot brand settled into it. While all are there to engage during the final test, there are usually fewer during this stage. Many are out training, others on missions.

 

Everyone is dressed again for tradition, and of course hoods make bodies difficult to recognize, to tell apart, but still it feels as if now the ones here are less familiar, ones that have avoided him more than others, have rarely spoken to him not wishing to rise Ra's Al Ghul's ire. It seems strange that these are the men who would choose to watch Bruce's branding, and something about it sits poorly in him. Old instincts never die, and it feels more like Bruce is being guarded over rather than surrounded by those who wish him well. Bane knows he is not the only one who feels it. Barsad glances at him, and there is such a tension in the air. Bruce, though, too young in some ways, still, seems to sense nothing, only stands in front of Ra's Al Ghul and bows his head respectfully to him, 'Ducard', as well as the brother they have been using for this ill-advised ruse.

 

“We have purged your fear,” Ra's says. “You are ready to lead these men. You are ready to become a member of the League of Shadows... But first, you must demonstrate your commitment to justice.”

 

Bane draws in a surprised breath. This is not the speech he was given when the mark to his wrist was made. There was no further 'demonstration' required. The trial was always the final test given. An order is given, and Bane's eyes are drawn to the cage kept in the corner of the room.

 

There is a man there, in a cage. Nothing out of the ordinary, a criminal. Those in the village often round them up and send them to the League for judgment. The League considers it a service, a measure of thanks for the tribute given to them by the villages, as well as for their secrecy. None find the league through them, unless they wish it. The man in the cage looks forlorn, resigned, and glossy eyed as his dirty fingers clutch the bars. It is clear he has already been tried, and is merely awaiting his final punishment. Another brother brings him forward at the order, and the man says nothing.

 

He knows better than to beg for mercy.

 

Of course. It makes a terrible sort of sense that Ra's Al Ghul would require this, first. Bane knows that of all of the men and woman who seek out the League, Bruce is the only one among them to never have taken a life. He had warned him. For him to be accepted into the League only after being certain that he can do what will eventually be required of him during their mission to stop injustice is only prudent.

 

And yet it feels unjust for him to have no time to prepare himself for this, for there to be no warming, to simply give him a prone man and expect the deed done. In the heat of battle, defending his brothers, fighting beside Talia, Bane imagines he might be able to do this task, with careful preparation, with full knowledge that the man in front of him is a murder, and that he cannot be saved... Perhaps, perhaps he might be able to do it.

 

But not now, not like this. Bane knows just from looking at him that it cannot be done. Barsad's shoulders tighten beside him. It is an impossible task, and they both know this, they know Bruce better than their leader, and they both wish that Ra's Al Ghul could see this for himself, that he would put an end to this before something unfortunate takes place. But their leader is blind. He has always been so when he is so certain of himself.

 

He holds the sword in his hands, and offers it to Bruce. Bruce does not understand at first, why the man is forced to kneel, and he stares at the weapon for a long moment before he looks up at Ra's, surprised, horrified, trying to be calm in the face of both emotions. He swallows and shakes his head, whispers quietly.

  
“No. I'm no executioner.” He looks up to who he believes is Ra's Al Ghul after the words are said. They may be a whisper, but they are made of stone. With them, the small tendril of hope that this may not end terribly is quashed from Bane's mind. His hands clench tightly at his sides.

 

“Your compassion is weakness your enemies will not share,” Ra's says, and Bruce will hear none of it.

 

“That's why it's so important. It separates us from them.” It is them around the fire again, all of them debating on the merits and downfalls of taking life. But here, it is a dangerous game. Bane imagines he can see the clench of Barsad's jaw even through his hood, and he wonders what must be racing through Talia's mind as she watches, hidden from view.

 

“If you want to fight criminals, then this man is a _murderer.”_

 

“This man should be tried.”

 

“By whom, corrupt bureaucrats?” Ra's Al Ghul's tone takes on one of incredulity now, and it only makes Bruce's face close off more. Any sway, any attempt to convince him, something that perhaps, just perhaps, one of them may have been able to do in private, that small window has closed. But Ra's does not see that. “Criminals mock society's laws. You know this better than most.”

 

“You cannot prepare these men unless you can do what is necessary to defeat evil.” The in-character brother's voice is firm, biting with disapproval, something designed to cut through Bruce's uncertainty, but instead it only makes him question.

 

“And where would I be leading these men?”

 

“Gotham,” the brother answers for their leader. “As Gotham’s favored son, you will be ideally placed to strike at the heart of criminality.”

 

“How?” Now Bruce does not sound uncertain. He sounds angry.

 

“Gotham's time has come. Like Constantinople or Rome before it, the city has become a breeding ground for suffering and injustice. It is beyond saving, and must be allowed to die. This is the most important function of the League of Shadows. It is one we've performed for centuries. Gotham... must be destroyed.”

 

Bane supposes the answer should not surprise him, and yet it does. He knows that Ra's Al Ghul's plans are grandiose, something designed to make others take heed of the warning the League has given, but he has known little more than that. He has heard tales of Gotham, the corruption and degradation that reign there. Perhaps their leader is not wrong in setting his sights on it, but Bruce has spoken of it, as well, with a soft fondness to his tone, with something that rings of homesickness on the nights he is more open with them. It is clear that he holds it in his heart. In Bruce's eyes, Gotham is a broken city, but it is his, it is something that he wants to make great again.

 

So for all of their planning to be to destroy this place, for Ra's Al Ghul to think that Bruce will be the one to lead to its destruction... Surely he must be mad.

 

There is desperation in Bruce's eyes, enough to drown in it as they shift around the room. They meet his, and Bane can say nothing. It is not his place. Barsad is likewise as silent, and soon Bruce is arguing with Ra's Al Ghul again, bargaining as Ra's does not listen, as he holds out the sword again and tells him there is no turning back.

 

Bruce takes the sword, slowly. The leather of his gloves creaks as he raises it over his head. He should be looking at the man being held prone on the ground, or perhaps to the brother who is posing as Ra's Al Ghul, but he is not. His head turns ever so slightly, and Bane finds that it is him that Bruce focuses on.

 

In his eyes is an apology, and he knows it is for him, for Barsad, for Talia. It is not for Ra's Al Ghul.

 

Bane should reach out and stop him, should grasp the sword and take it and complete the task himself, should push Bruce down onto his knees himself for what Bane knows in his heart he is about to do. This is treachery, and his inaction towards it is just as damning as he knows Bruce's action will be.

 

He steps back, instead. Barsad is in stride with him, his slender fingers dancing over the hilt of his sword. He knows.

 

The tip of Bruce's sword catches onto the white hot brand still sitting inside of the bowl. It sizzles and flips high into the air with the sharp wave of his arms, up into the rafters where extra supplies are kept, weapons, dangerous things, things that most _certainly_ should not be allowed near flame.

 

Perhaps Bruce has taken Ra's Al Ghul's teachings on theatricality all too literally. Or perhaps, in his desperate grasp to save the city he holds dear to his heart, he means to destroy them all.

 

“What are you doing?” Ra's shouts it, angry, disbelieving that one could ever so flagrantly shun the path that he has chosen.  
  
“What's necessary, my friend!”

 

“Bruce!” This time it is Barsad's voice that rings out sharply, his head jerking quickly in warning. Bruce swing around in time for his sword to deflect the sword of a brother, the clash of metal ringing sharply as others begin to draw their own weapons. The smoke is everywhere, beginning to fill the room, clouding everyone’s vision. Bane is sure if it were not for the mask, it could be clouding his lungs just as well. “We must leave!”

 

“Go! Save Talia!” Bruce rolls forward on the hardwood, his leg sweeping out to fell a brother rushing towards him.

 

“You are a _fool_ ,” Talia's voice rings out, “to think that I need _saving._ ” She already has a sword in her hand, not her own, and Bane truly does not wish to know how she obtained this one. He knew when he had stepped back that there would be no going back from it, but this chaos is not what he had in mind.

 

“Talia, we are leaving!” Bane circles his hand around her wrist, enveloping it and shouting over the sounds of fighting. Let Bruce battle with the brother, if he would not run. It is too dangerous for them to stay. The air is starting to stink with more than a smoke of wood fire.

 

“I have had ENOUGH, Bane.” She stares fiercely at him. “Enough of following my father, enough of having those I care for taken from me. This is madness, but I will not lose him to it—”

 

There is a brilliant flash in the air. The thundering crack of an explosion follows it, wood splinters, and he throws his elbow up to cover his eyes. Pain stings through him as shards embed into his arm. There is a choked noise beside him.

 

When he lowers his arm, he sees the deep red soaking the large shard of wood stabbing into her side. She looks shocked, her lips parting to speak, but nothing leaves them. He rushes to her, their surroundings blending into the background, explosions around them unheard, the sounds of swords and dying men forgotten and unimportant as gathers her up into his arms, dread rushing through his very soul as he hears her pained breathing.

 

“I'm alright, Bane. I'm alright.” She whispers it and clings to his arm carefully, as if he is the one who must be comforted.

 

“Hush, habibti.” He raises his arm up to crush the shadow suddenly by his side. Only the brilliant flash of red on the figure's pinky stills Bane's arm and wrath. Barsad ducks down, unflinching, and studies the wound amidst the chaos.

 

“You will be fine. It is hitting nothing vital,” he says, but Bane is not able to be relieved, yet. She pulls back from his arms when he tries to pull her away.

 

“Bruce—”  
  


“I will find him, Talia,” Barsad promises quickly, his eyes going to Bane. “Take her and go. We will catch up with you!”

 

He must be so careful when he lifts her not to jostle the wood, not to risk any pressure on the area, but they must move quickly. He tries not to think of what is being left behind as he does, the fleeting image of Barsad disappearing back to find Bruce, the string connecting them barely visible through the smoke.

 

He takes her to a safe distance, moving far from the temple, not wishing to be near any of the other rapidly evacuating men. He does not think they will be attacked, after all there was so much confusion in the temple, but he will not risk it. It is bitterly cold out, and neither of them are fully dressed for it. He strips off what he can and puts it onto her, checks her to make certain she is not going into shock. She is only watching the temple, though, the bursts of fire rushing through it.

 

“They will be alright,” she says quietly. It is not a question, but it is uncertain still.  
  
“Worry for yourself, habibti. They will come back to us,” Bane promises, and he hopes that it is true as he wills her to hold on while they make their way down the mountain in the bitter cold. It would not be the first time that he has only been able to save her.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Barsad feels like he is playing a ridiculous came of tag, chasing Bruce through the temple, dodging the explosions that threaten to blow him to bits. The entire temple will certainly collapse on them in minutes.

 

“BRUCE!” He shouts it again. The smoke is blocked by his hood, but not much, and his lungs are burning for fresh air. He lets the sound of swords clanging together be his guide as he coughs and feels his vision blurring. Finally, he can see them in the haze. As he runs to them, the ceiling finally gives, collapsing down in front of him and crushing the brother Bruce had been battling. Even now, Bruce's lips set into a thin line at the death.

 

“You are an _idiot_ ,” Barsad hisses out, hacking up smoke as he grabs for his arm. “We have to leave this place, now. Talia is hurt.”

 

The words finally seem to break through to Bruce's senses, and he nods curtly, then looks around sharply. “We have to—”

 

The explosion is so loud that all he can hear is a sharp buzz in his ears as they are both propelled forward. A flying beam of wood catches their chests, the armor the only thing that saves them both being ground into a paste as they're forced through the temple wall and into clean air, crashing into the snow. Barsad gropes around in the sudden blinding white for Bruce, and his hand clasps his wrist, sticky and hot with blood in the freezing cold.

 

“Ducard!” Bruce bellows out suddenly, and there is a streak flashing by them, black against snow. The slick skid of metal armor works to build momentum as Ra's Al Ghul slides past them, clearly having been knocked unconscious and now defenseless as he plummets towards the end of the mountain.

 

In the temple, when Bruce was being tested, Barsad had seen the same thing as Bane in Bruce's eyes as he had clasped his sword. He had seen and done nothing, just as Bane had, and they were just as guilty of what had transpired through their inaction, the destruction of a force for balance in the world. Now surely they should leave him, let him careen out of control over the cliff and put an end to this, but loyalty runs too deep in Barsad's blood to simply let his now former leader fall.

 

“Come on!” He pulls on Bruce's wrist, grunting in pain with every pull of his sore and bruised muscles. Bruce understands, though, works with him, and they push off in the snow, angling themselves as they body sled down the steep slope. Snow rushes up and flicks over his cheeks, and Bruce's hand locks around his own wrist, in turn, as they come closer and closer to the cliff. He shouts, and swings his arm out to help Bruce swing forward, digging his boots into the snow to keep all of them from dropping off the cliff's edge. Hot pain shoots through him, his entire body threatening to tear in half as Ra's disappears over the cliff and Bruce with him. The sudden weight of them both is too much. He screams when he feels his shoulder dislocate, but he does not let go. He cannot.

 

“Bruce.” He hisses his name through clenched teeth. “I can't—I can't—”

 

“Just get me up. Get me up, and I can get him up. Please, Barsad.”

 

The golden prince would learn now, of all times, to say please to him.

 

Barsad wants him to let go. He knows if he would let go he could do this, but he knows he will not. It is agonizingly slow, to inch backwards and not lose his grip. His boots catch on ice and he skids forward, losing any ground he has made, the scream of frustration building in him nearly letting go.

 

A wide, dark hand suddenly grabs his arm, nearly startling him into losing his grip.

 

“Hold him.” Kojo's tone is sharp in the suddenly quiet air, and Barsad barely nods, squeezing tight, feeling his hand begin to numb from it. Kojo uses his arm like a rope, sitting at the edge and digging his own boots into the ground, pulling back with both hands. It hurts like hell, and Barsad sucks in pained breaths, relieved when Bruce is finally in view, over the edge. Ra's is next, still unconscious if not dead, oblivious to all that has happened. Bruce falls back onto his back and breathes raggedly. Barsad sits up slowly, his arm dangling uselessly from his side.

 

“Kojo—”  
  
“You must go, Barsad,” Kojo cuts him off sharply, as his hands grips his shoulder and arm, mercilessly popping the bone back into the socket without warning. Barsad nearly bites his tongue in two to hold back the scream. “This—it was reprehensible, and if I were to see you, then you know I would have to kill you for it. So it is good that I did not see you.”

 

“Thank you.” Barsad whispers it, heartfelt, and he feels a sudden pain in his heart for it. He had avoided becoming close with any of his brothers, he had tried, at least, and apparently he had failed in that. “For what is worth, I am sorry to lose you.”

 

“And I you, brother.” Kojo says it quietly, and Barsad feels the warm press of lips to his temple. “Be well, be safe.”

 

Barsad nods sharply, and rises to his feet with Bruce. Between the two of them, with pain-labored breaths and arms wrapped around one another's shoulders, they make it down the mountain alive, half frozen. Between the smoke and the freezing air, Barsad feels as though he cannot breathe. Air wheezes through his lungs as though he might take in as much as he can and still not have enough.

 

Finally, though, finally, they are at the base of the mountain, stepping slowly onto the worn dirt paths where weather worn cattle and old carts travel past, no one so much as glancing at them out of respect for the temple. That will not last long, but they need at least a moment's rest, and he is fervently praying that Bane and Talia have made their way there, as well, having seen neither of them on the tail down. They are alive, at least they know that. Barsad had felt the pull of his string, and Bruce says he has felt his own. It is what gave them the strength to move down the mountain.

 

It is in the healer’s small hut that they find them both. Talia is spread out on a straw mat, bandages winding up her side as Bane rests beside her, stroking his fingers through her loose, soot-coated hair. She tries to sit up when they push past the thick cloth covering the door, held down by Bane's insistent hand on her shoulder. It is good. Even battered as she is, she might have torn Bruce apart if she could touch him. The healer is quick to leave the room, to give them privacy, not wanting to be involved.

 

“How could you have done this? This was my father's work, his teachings! You have killed men, _many_ men, Bruce. You say you will not be an executioner and how many brothers died tonight by _your_ doing?”

 

“Talia.” Bruce drops down beside her, his knees hitting the dirt as he risks taking her hand. “I'm sorry. I couldn't. I couldn't be what he wanted me to be.”

 

“Is he even alive, or did you kill him when you could not a murderer?” she asks coldly, but her hand is shaking.

 

“He saved his life, Talia,” Barsad cuts in, knowing it will not fix things, but hoping to balm the wound. “At great risk to his own. He is with the League, now, what is left of them. They will bring him back to health.” Fingers reach up for his own, and he laces them with Bane's, is guided down to sit beside him. He nearly collapses, having been running on bare bones. He leans against Bane and sighs at the strength and warmth offered in the silent motion.

 

“Promise me he is alive, Barsad.” She is as tired as the rest of them, and he reaches to touch her cheek.

 

“I swear it, Talia. You know why he did it, and you know we could have stopped him and did not. Why, Talia?”

 

“Because of his plans,” she says after she closes her eyes. “Because he was going to try and use him to destroy what he loved. I knew he could not, but he would not listen to me. I thought I could try explaining, but I knew of the test... it was why I stayed.”

 

“We all knew,” Bane spoke quietly. “We all knew, in our own way, what would pass today, and none of us stopped it. In this way, this action was from all of is, at a great cost, but we all share the burden.”

 

“You knew?” Bruce glances up at them, and Barsad shakes his head.

 

“You are not nearly so capable of hiding your face from us as you wish.” It earns a tired, pained laugh, something shared between them all.

 

Bruce rubs his hand over his face, and strips off his breastplate so that he can lie beside Talia, a sigh of exhaustion expelled from his lungs “I'm sorry, Talia, I am, but it's over. Can you forgive me for it?”  
  
“To not forgive you means I cannot forgive them, and that I cannot forgive myself... Give me time,” she says, and her fingers find Bruce's cheek, nails delicately tracing over his cheekbone.

He nods gratefully, eyelashes fluttering closed at the touch. “What will we do, now that it's over? I killed Ra's Al Ghul. The League of Shadows is finished.”

 

It almost seems a shame to tell him, but this is not nearly as over as Bruce thinks it will be. By saving 'Ducard's' life, he has unwittingly condemned them all to a harsher battle, later. This will do nothing to dissuade Ra's Al Ghul's plans for Gotham, and if nothing else, it will galvanize them into action faster.

 

“We must speak, Bruce.” She whispers it and tilts her head to face him. “But later. I am tired.”

 

He stays in the tent with her. Bane touches her forehead, and helps Barsad rise to his feet though his legs scream in protest. He takes him to the healer and says nothing, he watches the worst of his wounds treated and he says nothing, they walk to an empty hut provided to them and, still, he says nothing. Barsad feels his uneasiness grow, uncertain if Bane is angry with him in some way over the events, if perhaps he should have stopped Bruce because Bane could not bring himself to do it.

 

He opens his mouth to speak inside of the small tent, and he gasps. He is pressed down so suddenly into the mat that he is not so certain how he left his feet, only that his shoulders are suddenly flat against straw, his armor still digging into his back. His hood is pulled up and there is a hiss, the release of Bane's mask. He is kissed so suddenly it is dizzying, the world slowing down around him. It is done so sweetly, so achingly sweetly, as only one who thinks they have lost another, only to find them safe in their arms again, can. He gasps, breathing in the air that leaves Bane's lungs, tasting the buzz of medication that numbs his lips as he presses them back against the scars and marring of Bane's mouth.

 

“I thought I had lost you.” It is whispered against him before the mask is pulled down again, his breath pushing out through the grates once more. “I thought that I was being made to choose who must live and who must die, once more, but this time I thought that choice would break me.”

 

“Shh.” Barsad touches over his cheeks, cups leather and skin in his palms and presses a kiss to his forehead. “We are both here with you, and we are both well.”

 

Bane nods quietly, and does not move from crowding over him. If anything, he sinks down further, pressing their bodies together as much as is feasible. Barsad decides that he does not care, even with his damaged lungs, the heavy weight is welcome, comforting. He manages to work off his armor between them, and it skids across the dirt floor, smacking the wall of the hut. He wraps his arms as much as he can around Bane, and he feels the motion returned in silence as his warmth covers him, soothes him into sleep.

____________________

 

Bane wakes, finding Barsad under him, damaged but still in one piece. His mouth is slack with sleep, and it fills him with a sense of relief. His dreams had been strange, hazy dreams about a boy, a boy he feels as though he has seen before, touched before, but it is so fleeting and hardly the thing to concern himself with, at the time. After Barsad wakes and they take themselves back to the healer’s tent, they find that Talia has told Bruce the truth of her father, that he had unwittingly rescued Ra's Al Ghul, himself, for better or worse. Things are still strained between them all, but they share a recuperating meal of broth and bread.

 

“We have to determine our next move,” Barsad points out as he soaks a piece of bread in his bowl then chews slowly. He sits with his body supported against Bane's, on Bane's insistence. He has been loath to not feel the press of his body, the reassurance that he is there and well.

 

“I know mine.” Bruce sets down his cup. “If Ra's Al Ghul is going for Gotham, then that's where I need to be. I can't let him destroy it.”

 

“There is good reason he wanted it destroyed, and you underestimate him if you think he will be so easy to stop, even after this.”

 

“I can't just let him. I have to try,” Bruce says. “There's good there, Talia, and there's good people. People who need help, people who can make the city great, if they're not being crushed down into the dirt.”

 

“My father would say that the only thing that can come of Gotham is to purge it, let it be a warning to others lest they fall into such decay.” The words roll off of Talia's tongue matter-of-factly. “But my father was wrong about many things.”

 

“He was. He was wrong about you, about all of this, and about Gotham... Come with me?” Bruce asks it quietly, hopefully, and Bane can hear the boyish need in his tone, the soft hesitance that Talia has told him of, the need he feels and hides from others. “Please?”

 

Talia looks at him for a long moment, per lips pressed together as she mulls over the idea. “I will not simply follow you around, Bruce.”

 

“Don't follow, we've all followed enough. Let's work together, all of us.”

 

“All of us?” Barsad quirks his brow, clearly as surprised as Bane that they are being included in this conversation.

 

“Yeah.” Bruce makes a quick amused noise. “I know the only way Talia is coming is with you both with her... and I want you both to come, too. I could really use some help.”

 

“You will certainly need the help, if you wish to save an entire city,” Bane points out, and he shares a glance with Barsad. It is not a difficult decision to make. Where else are they to go? They have fought their entire lives, and to suddenly back down, to live sequestered away when there will be a battle, suits none of them.

 

Bruce presses his lips together thoughtfully. “I'll need to get to a phone.”

 

____________________

 

John coughs, clearing his throat and making a face. His lungs have been bothering him for days, now, and whatever he's got just won't give. The clinic put him on antibiotics, but the sample packs they gave him ran out a couple of days ago without doing a damn thing, and even sweeping around the shop is threatening to send him into a hacking fit. It's the last thing he needs.

 

He takes a slow, rattling breath, feeling the tickle in his lungs, and willing the boss not to hear. Kids like him are a dime a dozen, desperate to work for any pay, and he won't send him home to rest if he's too noisy or going to scare off customers, he'll just kick him.

 

If he could just get a good night's sleep, maybe his body would have a chance to heal. Maybe, but who has time? He's just graduated, and that scrap of paper had taken everything he had to work for, for what good it did. It was tucked into his knapsack while he quickly found out that people were no more quick to hire him with it than they were without it. So much for that.

 

He'd managed to pick up a night job tossing newspaper and magazine bundles off of a truck at the paper stands. But he wasn't making anywhere near enough for an apartment, not when he needed first and last month’s rent, too, and not when he needed credentials, and a deposit, and a credit history, and some roommates to split the cost. He'd been pressing on through school, telling himself that if he could just graduate, maybe he could get somewhere with himself, but graduation was over now, he had two jobs, and he was still relying on the shelter to keep a roof over his head. Go fucking figure.

 

The door chimed, and he set the broom down, more than happy to be done with it for now. He made his way slowly to the front, slow even breaths, so he didn't need to cough. He never got sick, it has always been one of the few things he had on his side. This fucking cough, though. It is pissing him off, blindsiding him out of nowhere.

 

 

_John rubs at his eyes. It is freezing, and they won’t stop stinging, smoke clinging to him in a thick cloud. The cold haze travels past his lips and into his lungs, where it burns more than the first cigarette he bummed in school to smoke behind the track bleachers._

 

_He puts his hands to his mouth and coughs. Clouds and smoke puff out into his hands, ashes, ashes and spit spraying out and flecking gray smears. He can hear voices. Voices that he can recognize now, in his dreams. He's dreaming, and he runs from them, hacking and clutching his chest. There's fire in the snow, and it burns his bare feet as much as the snow freezes his hands when he falls and sinks into it. The voices are closer, and he forces his head up to look, sees how his strings travel up from his fingers and into the shadows, shadows that move closer to his prone form trapped and sinking in the snow and smoke and flame._

 

_He wakes up, and he can't breathe, coughing until he has to run to the bathrooms and throw up in the toilet, bile and what he swears is ash staining the porcelain._

 

 

Out of fucking nowhere.

 

He makes his way up to the counter, giving the man a short nod of recognition.

  
“Hey, Mr. Clark.” He coughs discretely into the back of his hand. “Coffee?” The guy comes in about once a day for a cup of black with two sugars. John thinks it was very possible he's a direct descendant of the dinosaurs. He isn't about to make him lift the coffee pot in the back on his own. The thing is heavy and, frankly, he doesn't trust the man not to break his arm in half doing it.

 

The question gets a nod and a slightly irritated noise. John just shakes his head and walks back to fix it, lifting up the glass decanter and pouring it out into a paper cup, glancing up at the old TV mounted up in the corner of the store, forever set to the news.

 

He jerks his hand, swearing when scalding hot, burnt coffee splashes across his bony wrist.

 

_Bruce Wayne: back from the dead._

 

The closed captioning took forever to catch up with the footage, but there he was, looking older than the last footage the media had been playing of him over and over again, absolutely surrounded by paparazzi asking questions, begging for his story. He waves them away, and manages to cut through the throng of people with a practiced ease, disappearing into a waiting limousine.

 

The newscaster appears again on the screen then, looking into the camera. “ _This was the scene that took place yesterday, at Gotham Airport. Bruce Wayne and Wayne Enterprises have declined commenting on the strange turn of events, but have agreed to give a press release today, and we go there, now, live.”_

 

It is amazing what a set of clean clothes and a shave could do. One day, and the guy looked like all of the millions of bucks he has. Bruce walks up to the podium, flashing a smile to the crowd below that was as bright as any light their cameras could give off, raising his hand to silence them.

 

“It's good to be home, everyone. I sure am glad you remember me.”  
  
It got a chorus of laughter, of course it did. Clearly, Wayne hadn't forgotten how to work a crowd.

 

“And I'm sure you all are wondering where I ran off to,” he continued, leaning down a little towards the microphone. John blinked a little when his face went softer, a little less the plastic, guarded mask he'd seen before, in interviews. For some reason, it made his stomach clench.

 

“I went to find myself. To make myself into a man, so that when I found my other half, I would be worthy of them.”

 

A murmur of touched noises spreads through the crowd. They are eating this shit up.

 

“But I didn't think I'd find them out there, and I didn't think that they would be the one who would help teach me how to be a man.”  
  
He has to stop, the shouts and applause are too fucking loud. Gotham's golden prince has found his string and his other half, and the crowd is fucking wild. John rips open some sugar packets, and dumps them into the coffee cup, trying not to listen as the broadcast continues.

 

“We've been traveling a long ways, and they'd like some time to settle in, but you'll all meet them one day, and I thank Gotham for its support and warm welcome home. In the coming days, I hope that you will treat them with the same kindness you have shown me, and that, together, we can show them what a wonderful city this can be.”

 

Go fucking figure. It was stupid. John had always felt a quiet sort of camaraderie with Bruce Wayne. Two orphans who didn't need their strings, who certainty weren't fucking out searching for them. John smacks the cup of coffee down onto the counter, and stares hard up at the glowing screen as Mr. Clark counts out his change.

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

Barsad coughs into his sleeve quietly as he sits at the window seat, looking out into the well-kept grounds. The smoke damage to his lungs seems to wish to linger on. Gotham air hardly agrees with him. The thin, crisp air of the temple was what he was now accustomed to, not this... smog. He has spent more than one morning waking to a coughing fit, making him feel weak, far from the warrior who had left the temple.

 

Bane touches his back lightly, drawing him from the thought. “Bruce's keeper wishes to know if you would like tea with honey for your cold.”

 

“It is not a cold... and his name is Alfred.” The corner of Barsad's lip twitches, though, when he can see the twinkle in Bane's eye. He insists on the title merely to ruffle Bruce, who glances up from the floor with his plans, and shoots him an annoyed look.

 

The transition of their first week in Gotham had been a strange one, indeed. Bruce had made his phone call, and they had found themselves on the small strip of an airport, a private plane greeting them within hours of the call being made.

  
And Alfred.

 

None of them had been prepared to trust another, a veritable stranger, merely on Bruce's word, but none had quite been prepared for the English gentleman waiting for them inside of the plane. Clipped, mannered, warm and kindhearted to his core, he had tutted over Bruce's disappearance while he cleaned up wounds and helped to stitch them back together. When Bruce slowly told the story, had taken Talia's hand and introduced her to Alfred, it was as though it had given the older man a new light within.

 

“ _Well,” he had breathed out, a smile stretching over his lips, and his expression softening as she held out her hand cautiously to greet him. “It is very lovely to meet you, indeed, Miss Talia.”_

 

Since then, the man has been a constant presence, one that the three would be hard pressed to say they minded. Talia especially seems to find him to be a comfort, something that surprises them all, so rare is it for her to trust another, but perhaps that says all that needs to be said for Alfred Pennyworth's strength of character. For now, she is in bed, much to her annoyance. Her injury struck nothing vital, and it is healing, but it has taken its toll, and she is tired easily. The morning had been spent on a careful tour of the house, Alfred's voice filling the halls as he told stories of Bruce's childhood, much to their brother's private horror.

 

“Perhaps I will have the tea,” Barsad says thoughtfully, his fingers lightly twisting the thin strand of red between his fingers, their other’s. With their home destroyed, Barsad has found his thoughts have turned to them more, and Bane has been much the same. Before, they belonged to the League. It was not their place to leave it and seek another. But now, they are in a strange limbo. Technically, they belong nowhere. They are in Bruce's mansion, and the three of them have never felt more out of place. Barsad suspects that Bruce feels the same way, that a life of riches now suits him poorly, though he does not say it.

 

In their bed—and Barsad can be greedy enough to admit that the pleasure of curling up with Bane on a bed, under thick, soft blankets is one luxury he would be happy to get used to—they have talked into the night, about their next steps, about the remnants of the League, Talia and Bruce.

 

“ _I do not know if we are enough to stop them. They will come, Talia knows many of their former plans, but much will have changed. Ra's will have prepared for that.” Barsad whispers his private fears from his place settled in Bane's arms, his fingers traveling lightly over the arm holding him in place. “I do not know if we are enough.”_

 

“ _Would you have us run? Leave them?” Bane asks, and Barsad stiffens, indignant._

 

“ _Of course not, never. I am only worried.”_

 

“ _There is no crime in that, but we will persevere in this. We have survived too much to fail, now.”_  
  
“And then what?” He asks the question that he knows has been on both of their minds.  
  
Bane traces his hand down Barsad's arm, squeezing his hand before he speaks. “Then... perhaps we should search for them. I think it might be nice.”  
  
The quiet confession surprises Barsad, makes him turn in his arms. “They may have no desire to seek us out. They haven't pulled since they were a child.” Even as he says it, though, he wants to seek them out, as well, and hopes that they are well. 

 

“ _Nor did we. I would rather know than not, wouldn't you?” Bane asks, and Barsad quickly nods, smiling quietly. It is settled. When they have helped Bruce secure his city, when their work is done, they will complete their circle. They will find their string._

_  
_Barsad stands and stretches, feeling the ache in his shoulder still, from dislocation. He scratches the back of his neck as he walks over to stoop down and study Bruce's notes. They have been piecing together what they know of Ra's Al Ghul's plans. Talia has told them everything she can, and Bruce has compiled that with everything he knows of the city.

 

Unfortunately, it is not nearly as much as they would like, and for now, it feels as if they are waiting for Ra's Al Ghul's opening maneuver in a game of wits. The flower, they know that Ra's has had chemists working with it for some time now, attempting to synthesize the compounds of the plant that induce fear, and that the same toxins are what he plans to use to destroy Gotham.

 

“Undoubtedly, he wished to amplify the effects of the toxin,” Bane posits quietly, looking over a sheet of notes. “We have all felt it, know how it can turn a man's mind against itself. The flower is rare, but if he were able to reproduce the effect of it in large quantities—”

 

“Gotham could tear itself apart for him. He'd like that,” Bruce says grimly, his mouth pressing into a tight line. “It makes sense, from what Talia knows.”  
  
“He did say that the punishment would suit the crime,” Talia speaks up quietly from the doorway. She walks with a hand against her side, slowly, waving off Bruce when he attempts to stand and assist. She lowers herself down slowly to sit beside Bane on the piano bench. “A city that he considered a mecca of self-destruction truly eviscerating itself… what could be more suiting?”

 

“But it's not. Gotham is corrupt, but we'll make it better. We'll give them a symbol, something that is incorruptible, something to give them hope. With hope, maybe the good won't be as afraid to hide.”

 

“I thought we were merely working to stop my father,” Talia says, her fingers curling around the base of the piano bench as her legs stretch out. “You sound as though you have something else in mind.”

 

“We are, but your father was right. Gotham can't go on like this. It'll destroy itself without his help.”

 

“So, you wish to, what? Use your training against the darker parts of Gotham? Be a vigilante. A rouge in the night. Will you stop muggers in dark alleys, help little old ladies cross the street?” Barsad asks, scoffing at the thought.

 

“Actually, I was thinking more that we'd take down one of the biggest crime bosses in Gotham,” Bruce says bluntly, and Barsad grins suddenly, unable to stop his sudden excitement at such a thought.

 

“Good. You tell me where to aim, and I will fire, do what you can't.” Or he will be ready to fire as soon as a rifle is in his hands again. His own was lost in the fire, and Bruce has been less than helpful about finding a replacement.

 

“No guns.” Bruce's tone is sharper.   
  
“Then Bane can snap his neck,” Barsad says, flashing a small grin at his brother who glances over from Talia, amused.

 

“If I may,” Alfred says as he walks into the room, carrying a tray with tea, “a man such as Mr. Falcone, a very powerful man, requires a somewhat more delicate handling” He holds out a cup to Barsad, who takes it with a grateful nod. “He is the type of man who has a great many waiting in the wings to swoop out and take his place.”

 

“Exactly,” Bruce says. “Killing him could just set off a chain reaction in Gotham, create a power scramble that would cost Gotham more than it has left.”

 

Barsad does not particularly care, but he is aware that Bruce does. He takes a swallow of his tea, the ginger-scented steam soothing the spasm that threatens his lungs constantly. “Fine. You wish to what, then, make an example of him?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“You would need many things for that, Bruce,” Barsad says knowingly. “The League has fought corruption in other areas of the world, and assassination is always less tricky. You would need a man inside of the police force, one who is not easily corrupted, a thing that is a dubious idea, at best, in Gotham.”

 

 

 

____________________

 

Bane listens to the arguing with a mild amusement. His fingers trace of the beautiful ivory keys of the piano, not pressing, they seem too delicate for him to truly do more than brush his fingertips over the smooth surface.   
  
He has heard it played, though. He had asked about the object simply sitting in the room, taking up space, and Alfred had been kind enough to give him a small smile, explain that it was a 'piano', something that Bane had read about before, in passing, in different novels, but had never been able to fully picture. When Alfred had asked if he wished to hear it, he had nodded, watched with rapt attention as the older man sat at the bench. His wizened fingers moved slowly, carefully over the ivory, as a soft melody filled the air. Bane had been enchanted.

 

“ _I'm a bit rusty, I'm afraid.”_  
  
“It was beautiful, thank you.”

 

Wayne Manor is just as much of a different world as the League was from the pit. The manor and grounds itself are filled with objects that he has only read of before, and never dreamed of seeing firsthand—paintings, sculpture, cars, the lush and vibrant greenery that reminds him of the garden in the hospital on a grander scale. It is perhaps for the best that he cannot simply leave the grounds without incurring the curiosity of the multitudes. He could not even imagine Gotham City, on top of it.

 

He is drawn from his thoughts by a strange squeak, the smack of an object against the high ceilings. It draws the others from their argument, Bruce in particular, and Bane notes the sudden flash of uncertainty in his eyes as he sees the brown creature flapping above, a visceral reaction met with the sudden tightening of his hands into fists. Fear.

 

“It's a bat,” Alfred says when he notes the look of curiosity from Talia. “The bloody things like to think they own the place. Can never quite find the source but I think they're nesting somewhere in the grounds.”

  
Bruce stares up at the ceiling, his lips parted slightly as he swallows heavily. “I might know where.”

 

Bane is surprised when Bruce asks him along on the excursion. He supposes it makes sense, though. Neither Barsad nor Talia are well enough for a trek across the grounds, and though Alfred seems like quite a capable man for his age, Bane doubts he desires to trudge through the wet grass and overgrowth in the lesser-kept areas of the manor, not when it is clear he has other things to attend to.

 

“Where are we going?” Bane asks as Bruce stops several times to look through the area, seemingly lost in memory.   
  
“I remember bats from my childhood.”

 

“They frighten you.”

 

Bruce glances over and nods his head curtly. “Yeah.”

 

“Were they what you saw when you took the trial?” Bane asks, knowing it is perhaps to personal, but he remembers how Bruce had fallen to the ground, frantically batting away invisible creatures from his body.

 

“Yeah,” Bruce says again, quieter. “My father once told me that they were more afraid of me than I was of them.”  
  
“Do you believe that?”

 

“No,” Bruce answers. He pulls on a pair of thick work gloves, and together they work to tug away a thick carpeting of nettles and other brambles that threaten to bite into their hands beyond the leather. Their work is rewarded as old stone is slowly revealed, and it seems to be what Bruce has been looking for.

 

A pit.

 

Bane takes several steps back, dropping the armfuls of brush he had been holding when it is revealed in its entirety. In truth, it is nowhere near large enough to be the mouth of the pit, but the resemblance is too close to what he has always prayed never to see again, and yet what is so often found in his nightmares. Bruce drops the bundle of rope he had been carrying over his shoulders. Bane had thought it to be used for carrying something, clearing away more perhaps, but now he realizes it is a pulley of sorts, and Bruce pushes some into his hands.

 

“What are you doing?” Bane holds the rope in his hands for a moment.  
  
“I brought enough rope for two. I figured we'd explore it together.”

 

“No. I will stay above, make certain you will be able to rise back out again,” Bane says quickly, pushing down the flood of ill that suddenly twists in his stomach as he steps close enough tentatively, his boots just touching the stone as he stares down at the open mouth of the well.

 

“I thought you might want to see what's down there with me,” Bruce says, confused, not offended, but perhaps privately hurt that Bane is rejecting the idea.

 

Bane crouches, touches the cold stone, and the sensation seems to ripple up his entire arm and through his core. “We all saw things during our trial that we do not wish to endure again, Bruce. I am sure Talia has spoken of our home.”

 

Bruce is quiet for a moment, understanding dawning on him before he answers slowly. “We did, and we faced them, beat them,” he counters, and Bane is surprised by the hand on his shoulder. It is rare to feel such a touch of camaraderie from Bruce.

 

“We did.” His breathing sounds louder in the quiet of the grounds, and his fingers ache suddenly. He looks down to realize he has been gripping the stone so roughly that his skin threatens to tear from the strain.

 

“We had to face them alone, then,” Bruce adds. “We don't have to, now.”

 

“Are you asking for my courage on your journey, or offering your own for mine?”

 

“I was thinking both.” Bruce kneels down to rest his elbows on the rim of the well, staring down into it. Bane realizes after a moment that it is not only him whose breath is heavier.

 

“Very well.”

 

Descending is different from rising. He feels with each inch he lowers himself that more and more memories are swathing around him, a thick cocoon to entomb him, and he a fly that willingly falls back into the web. He swallows roughly, and the dryness in his mouth so often present from medication is a parchedness that is a memory of the dry heat and days with barely more than a swallow of filthy water.

 

Perhaps that memory is the strongest, and that is why when he touches down on loose rock, when his ears are suddenly filled with the endless sound of rushing water, that those memories are dashed away as he looks around in wonder.

 

For all of the similarities of its mouth, this is not the belly of the pit. The pit is death, and there is so much life here in the dark beauty of the cavern that Bane is struck by it. Bane can see his own wonder reflected in Bruce's eyes as he reaches down into his supplies and pulls out a lantern stick. Just barely over the rush of the water, the flap of wings can be heard, and they are many, more than can be numbered. The light will surely attract them, but he does not bother saying such a thing to Bruce. He knows.

 

Bane stands back, leaning against the cool, damp rock, feeling fresh water trickle against his shoulder as he watches Bruce step out into the center of the cavern. The faint flaps grow stronger, and there is a swarm of darkness. It surrounds Bruce as suddenly as it comes, and Bane begins to tense, to step forward to pull his brother out of the cloud of darkness before he stops and he stares. He watches as Bruce closes his eyes at first, nearly on his knees, overwhelmed, before he stands, his head tipped back, his body loose, at peace.

 

Bane feels as though he has seen a man and a creature rise together and become one.

 

“Where did you go?” Talia asks later as she lays out on the bed. Barsad is changing her dressing carefully. Alfred is a respectful distance away, but holding a tray of supplies for the task.

 

“Bruce went to find himself. I was honored to witness it,” Bane tells her, and she seems curious, sitting up and straightening her shirt.

 

“I have been thinking of what he said. There are only four of us, and he wishes to save Gotham not only from my father, but from itself. We will need more.” She stands shakily, and picks up a folder off of the bed beside her. Bane can see the name “Applied Sciences” marked neatly along the tab. “There are many things hidden away in Wayne's resources that my father knew about. Weaponry, most of it is no use to us, meant for armies... but there is some here. It is worth looking into.”

 

To say the Bruce is pleased with his trip to the applied science division is, perhaps, an understatement. Other aspects of his visit to Wayne Enterprises, however, sit poorly with him. It is clear from how he sits quietly, rubbing his hands over the long black case holding the prize he has obtained from one Mr. Fox.

 

“Earle wants to take the company public. It might be too late to stop him from doing it.”

 

“I'm certain, Master Wayne, that we shall think of something to put a stop to that then, won't we?” Alfred says, sniffing slightly as he leans to glance down at Bruce's equipment, as if inspecting a child's new toy. “You have quite enough on your hands. Let me handle Mr. Earle while you lot carry on with your escapades.”

 

“I notice there is only one suit,” Barsad points out to purposefully change the subject and pull Bruce's mind from it. “Did you think we would take turns?”

 

“It's a prototype. You have to go to get yours fitted if you want to go spelunking with me,” Bruce answers, a mischievous air to his tone. “There's other stuff, too, communicators, utilities.”

 

“Very well. Have you decided who will be brought into this?” Barsad asks, his fingers resting over the armor's case thoughtfully until Bruce slides a file across it to him. “He is who you've decided to put our trust into, then?” He picks up the file, reading it. “Sergeant James Gordon. Why? How can you be certain he is any less crooked than the rest of them?”

 

“I've met him before, a long time ago. We can trust him. Look at his record, look at his lifestyle, not living above an officer's means, a little house, a beat up car. He's not taking a taste from anyone.”

 

“I do not like him.” Barsad lets the file fall back onto the table with a disinterested slap.

 

“You don't like anyone, Barsad,” Bruce points out. It gets a vicious grin and no denial.

 

“Fine. We will pay him a visit, together. See how he takes to having friends in mysterious places.”

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

“Together?” Bruce looks at him, clearly surprised by the suggestion. “You don't have a suit, yet.”

 

“And yours is not even yet put together. Did you think we didn't see the sketches for the cowl? I think perhaps you are indeed pushing the ideals of theatricality from the League to their very limits.” Bruce opens his mouth, and Barsad holds up his hand. “I do not care, as long as you do not expect me to wear it. We will go together, get a feel for the situation, and gather information. If we cannot work together in this, how can we expect to do so with any other aspect of this battle?”

 

“You're right. We'll go tonight.”

  
Put together or not, Bruce's suit does the job, for the most part. Barsad can see that it is finely crafted, blending in well to the darkness as they scale the rooftops together.  
  
“You look ridiculous.” He mutters it. Not envious.

 

Bruce chuckles quietly as they crouch down on the roof adjacent to the police building. “You'll get one,” he says as he pulls a black ski mask on. Barsad hopes he lands on his head.  
  
“How much will you tell him?”  
  
“Nothing, yet. Right now, we just want answers. I'll go in, find out what it's going to take to get Falcone taken down.”  
  
“You mean _we_ will go in,” Barsad says, pulling on a red mask of his own.  
  
“You need to stay out here, keep an eye out. Be ready to run.”  
  
“I did not come out here to simply watch.”

 

“You go in there, and your coughing is going to make things a lot less intimidating, Barsad.”  
  
Barsad glares in turn at the insult. Climbing the rungs of the fire escapes, the chilled air, he has coughed more than once on the trip, and he does not need the reminder that he is still not back to his full strength. “ _Fine._ ” His lip curls into a sneer. “I will wait here. Hurry back.”

 

Barsad watches him disappear, begrudgingly commending his ability to move across the rooftop silently, slipping into the office window. He waits, crouched, fingers grasping the roof ledge impatiently. Bruce has no firearm on him, barely any sort of weapon no matter how he tried to press the issue, and now he is practicality delivering himself to the police if something goes wrong.

 

He stands up sharply, gravel crunching under his boots when he sees Bruce's quick exit from the window, how he scrambles up the ladder and back to the roof. The door to the roof bursts open, and Barsad's jaw tightens when he sees the flash of metal in each man's hands, guns aimed at Bruce. Bruce who is leaping across the rooftop...

 

And crashing, arms desperately clinging to the fire escape. Only Barsad's quick snap of his wrist, grabbing the metal and forcing it not to snap open keeps Bruce from crashing down to the alley ground.

 

“Truly, have we taught you nothing?” He grunts it out through gritted teeth, oofing when Bruce latches onto his shoulder and hauls himself up. Together they run, the air burning in his lungs as Bruce's arm holds his elbow, the wind rushing over them as they leap from one rooftop to the next, leaving the police far in their wake. It does not occur to Barsad until their feet are on concrete again, that his cough did not disturb them once during it. He nearly doubles over after, though, Bruce's fist pounding over his back as he coughs into his hands, waving him away, finally.

 

“It did not seem to go well.”  
  
“I got what we needed, and I gave him a name, someone who will actually prosecute if we can get Falcone to the police.”

 

“Who?”

  
“Rachel Dawes. She's a childhood friend. She—” Bruce pauses and is quieter. “I guess you could say she's what set me on this path. If anyone is brave enough to convict Falcone, it's her.”

 

Barsad almost asks more, but there are police sirens in the distance. There is only a slim chance that they are actually for them, but it would be best not to risk it. Beneath their masks, they share the briefest flash of a smile before they take off again together.

 

It is a small victory, but it seems to enliven all of them. It is a solid task, something to do while they wait for Ra's Al Ghul's first move. Bruce visits Mr. Fox often, filled with ideas on how to perfect his suit. Bane could care less, insisting that his back and wrist brace are enough. Talia has more interest, though, and when Bruce shows them the memory cloth given to him, it is enough for them to pay a visit to Applied Sciences, themselves.  
  


Mr. Fox is a gracious man. Barsad suspects that he would get along quite well with Alfred. Bruce introduces Talia to him. He hasn't 'shown her off' to the public yet, so to speak, though he knows Talia would perhaps gut him for thinking of it in such a way, but Mr. Fox seems to guess easily enough who she is, taking her hand and shaking it while he gives her a warm smile.

 

“My, my, it is a pleasure to meet you. Mr. Wayne said you were interested in a particular piece of equipment down here.”

 

Barsad sits down in a corner of the wide underground room, soon treated to the squeal of delighted laughter that can be heard even over the sound of the tumbler racing through the end test room. He looks over at Bruce who leans against the wall, a small smile on his face.  
  
“You probably are thinking about what it will look like in black,” Barsad teases, smacking him lightly with the folder he has been reading, with information on the piece of technology.

 

“No, I just, I think it's the first time I've heard her laugh like that,” Bruce admits quietly. Barsad tilts his head, thinking about it, before nodding in agreement.  
  
“It is rare... Life has been harder for her than it has for others. I do not hear you laugh, either.”

 

“You laugh,” Bruce points out, “but it's only a good laugh when it's with him.”

 

Barsad nearly ducks his head, biting the inside of his cheek to prevent a completely foolish smile from stretching his cheeks. “I will ride next.”

 

 

 

“You are certain you are well enough to go?” Bane asks again. Talia nearly ignores the question, but then seems to think better of it, touching his shoulder.

 

“I am well, Bane. It will not be a difficult task. I have been cooped up inside, not doing my part for far too long.” She calmly checks a communicator, tucking it behind her ear. “I will truly be missing most of the excitement, only a pair of watchful eyes to bail out Bruce if he is foolish enough to make a mess of things.

 

“Then you will have your work cut out for you,” Barsad says cheerfully, watching as she tucks a knife into her boot. Tonight, Talia and Bruce will be going down to the docks as a pair. Falcone will be there... They have plans to gift wrap him for the police.

 

Barsad watches them prepare and then leave through the front door, one of the more discreet, or as discreet as possible, cars already parked out front. He turns to Bane and smiles cheerfully, even knowing that Bane's brow is furrowed in quiet worry.

 

“Now that they are gone... Come with me.”

 

"What are you doing?" Bane asks, his head tilted with curiosity as he follows Barsad down to the garage. Barsad hits the switch by the door, and the area floods with light, rows and rows of vehicles lined up, pristine and beautiful.

 

Surely Bruce will not miss one or two. Not while he is out and quite busy.

 

"We are going out, brother."

 

"To follow them?"

 

"To fol—" he stops and laughs fondly. "No, this is for us." He has been off the grounds, to take in the lay of Gotham's land firsthand, to buy supplies, and, in truth, to clear his head, be alone for a short spell, something to be sure that he was not letting Bruce or anyone else cloud his personal judgment when it came to their strange mission. Bane, though, he has only experienced Gotham as a quick car ride to the manor, and he has not left since then.

 

"We are going out to see what we are getting ourselves into." His hands touch over the seat of a red Ducati, blue eyes flashing slightly green with envy. This one. "And to be out, together."

 

"I do not know how to ride that." Bane sounds uncertain, but curious when his own hand touches down on the handle of a yellow bike of the same make. Barsad turns, grinning.

 

"You will learn quickly, I am sure of it."

 

He is right. They take a quick trip around the grounds, engines roaring to life, in unison after a quick lesson. The helmet on Bane is perfect, hiding away his mask as Barsad thought it would, though in truth he would rather it not be hidden, at all.

 

The city is dark, busy in the main districts, and Barsad is displeased when they are stopped by traffic often. Not Bane, though. Barsad sees how his helmet tilts back, taking in the large buildings, the crowds of people on the sidewalks, the other vehicles pressed in close to them. They ride through, and Barsad takes them through to less congested areas, places where people do not tend to wish to be at night. It is perfect for them, and as the streets empty, Barsad speeds up, making sharp turns, twists of his body that have him speeding ahead of Bane who works to follow him, to catch up.

 

They break into a more open area, stopped by a sudden red light, and Barsad is near grinning. Bane is having fun, he can tell. Even though he cannot see Bane's face, there is a certain tilt to his helmet, a sense of mischievousness in the air, and Barsad nods his head in return, suddenly peeling off at the red light, and leaving Bane to chase after him again.

 

____________________

 

One, two, three, toss. It's a repetitive cycle that John has gotten used to, on his delivery route. The plastic ties from the newspaper and magazine bundles cut into his hands like a bitch, but good gloves are expensive and would probably just get filched in the shelter, so he hasn't bothered. He can see the deep red lines in his dry hands as they pass under different streetlights, the truck back open and the vehicle itself rumbling along slowly, spitting out exhaust to add to Gotham's already polluted air.

 

One, two, three, toss.

 

Gotham is a blur from the back of the truck where he crouches, just lights and sudden fog at different areas. He usually gets a nod from the newsstands when he drops off a bundle, maybe a quick 'thanks kid', but for the most part the job is quiet. Murray, the driver, doesn't like to talk much, just a couple of quick directions once in a while before he's back to ignoring John, which is more than fine by him.

 

One, two, thee, toss.

 

He lets his mind drift as he works, ignoring the ache in his back and knees from the repetitive motion. He's been studying between jobs, getting ready to take some placement testing at the local community college. It's going to take some juggling, but he'll be able to get his tuition covered, find time between jobs to do classes, criminal justice. He never thought he'd be going for that, not when he'd first thought of taking courses. How many crummy cops had come down hard on him as a kid, and how many more were deep in the pockets of the mob? Maybe that's why he's picking it. He can do a better job than what's going on now. Maybe he's sick of no one doing anything to help anyone else in this city, how it just gets worse and worse.

 

One, two, three, scream.

 

John freezes mid-swing, the bundle jerking in his arms and sending a sharp ache through his shoulders as his eyes scan the streets. They aren't in the best part of town, not by a long shot, just cutting through to get to another area of newsstands. He catches a glimpse of the alley. Of course. It's always the alleys, isn't it? How many times had he almost been dragged into one and gotten the snot beaten out of him as a kid?

 

“Hey, hey, someone's in trouble over there!” He stands up from his crouch, feeling his knees scream in protest at the sudden shift to standing. Murray doesn't even hit the brakes. John watches as the small shadow pressed up against the dumpster gets even smaller as distance comes between them, and then it’s completely overshadowed by the man pressing against it, big, an enforcer if John ever saw one. This isn't a mugging, it's probably mob business, some delivery kid not making good. A business John almost had his hand in half a dozen times before he'd snatch it away like it burned.

  
“Murray, it's a _kid!”_

  
“Leave it, Blake.” He can see the wave of his hand, the tightening of the other on the steering wheel. Murray's a lot smarter than him. He cares, Blake can tell by how he glances back into the rear view mirror, but not enough, not enough to get involved.  
  
“C'mon, we can't just leave it. At least call the cops.”  
  
“Can't, no cellphone. I'm figuring you don't have one either—Hey!”  
  
John doesn't stick around for the rest. As soon as the truck has to slow for a speed bump, he grabs the side panel, lowering himself down. His feet nearly skid right out from under him, and he has to run with the truck, nails scraping and chipping against the metal, until he slowly rights himself, Murray's shouts over the screech of tires, until he's able to stop and spin around. The truck starts up again, and his sneakers smack into the concrete as he runs back to the alley, closing in on the assailant. The kid's on the ground now, curled up, he can't see how hurt, but he runs faster.  
  
“Hey!” He shouts it out as loud as he can, waving his arms as he runs. With any luck, he can just make this not worth the guy's trouble. That's how John spent of lot of his childhood, making himself not worth the trouble, putting up enough of a fight and being worth little enough that people learned to stop bothering him.

 

Unfortunately, it doesn't always work, not when there's higher-ups to report back to. He sees the guy jerk his head back, glance at him, a quick appraisal, before turning right back to his business, a quick dismissal. John's clearly not a threat to him, not when he has his target right where he wants him.   
  
“Back off, kid. You don't wanna get involved in business that ain't your concern.”  
  
John sees the man brace gloved hands against the rusty ridge of the dumpster, bracing himself so he can raise his leg back, slam it down into the prone form's ribs. The smaller body jerks, curls up tighter, a quiet sob ripping out of the boy.  
  
“Please. Please, I'm sorry, Frank. I'm sorry!”   
  
Then John sees a flash of red, and the pain of his knuckles breaking against the man's jaw is barely enough to break through that misty color. He's holding a fistful of leather jacket in his other hand, and realizing what a mistake it is when he sees the rage in the other man's eyes is enough to match his own when it's coupled with the blood streaming from his lips.

 

The man feels like a car slamming into him, the sharp edge of the dumpster driving between his shoulder blades. His teeth snap down on his tongue, and he tastes blood. There's so much fucking muscle and fat bulking out under that jacket. That's a broken rib, at least. How the hell is he going to afford that? This was never a fair fight, but it was never about that. He doubles over at the sudden punch to his gut, a stab of pain dimming his vision, but he sees the kid crawling out of the alley unnoticed, hears the soft sounds of him breaking out into a wobbly run. John just hopes he gets far enough to get to someone who will actually help him, and not just lock the door, maybe get to a phone at least.

 

He really should get a phone if he makes it through this, for emergencies. It's about as stupid a last thought as he always figured he would have as he feels the rough smack of brick slamming into the back of his skull.

 

____________________

The metallic scents of ozone and other pollutants are not quite filtered out by the mask. Even they are interesting, though, new. Gotham is as new as the manor, and there is an equal measure of fear and awe running through him as he takes in the buildings and people during his harrowing ride. It would be Barsad who would find a way to introduce him to this city that keeps him moving through it, never staying in one spot long enough to be overwhelmed, not crowded into a car or by people, free to move about and explore... and free to chase him through the streets.   
  
All of it is thrilling, and Bruce and Talia's mission becomes something not to fret over, something only in the back of his mind as his motorcycle kicks up dirty water around a sharp curve, and Barsad vanishes from view. It is clever, and the game is hardly fair. He is new to this, to crowds, and Barsad is quite rotten when it comes to cheating.  
  
But he is having fun. This game of chase is something new, entirely, and his heart beats faster in his chest. For once, it has nothing to do with fear, with the fight, with a struggle. It is excitement purely for the sake of excitement, and he veers off into a darker street, searching for any sign of Barsad, trying to discern where the sound of his engine is leading him to.

 

Something else catches his vision, though, and it makes him bring the bike to a stop in the middle of an empty street. Not Barsad, a boy on foot. In the harsh yellow of the street lights, he can see blood streaking across his dark skin, dripping down into the sidewalk as he tries to run, but while holding his side it is more of a hobble.

 

His eyes lock on the bike, and he shrinks back like he might disappear into the nearby brick wall. Then he looks back, and his split lip is sucked between his teeth. "You got a phone, mister?" He shouts it out with a hushed caution. "There's a guy back there getting hurt, bad. Can you call the cops?"

 

A phone is certainly not something he carries on his person. Bruce had one, Barsad has obtained one, as well, for when he travels out, but Talia and himself, they have not felt the need for such a thing. Barsad has a communicator in his helmet, to keep track of the mission, but between the mask and the motorcycle helmet Bane had not bothered to bring his own, thinking it would be impossible to hear or be heard through it.

 

Clearly, this was a mistake on his part, but it is not one he can remedy, now. Instead, he turns off his vehicle, bringing it to rest beside the curb, and making the boy's eyes widen as he climbs off of it, his full stature able to be seen.

 

"Where?" He speaks it loud enough to be heard through both layers, and the boy raises his hand, finger pointing back towards a dark alley. Bane can just barely hear his footsteps as he runs. It is a wise survival instinct.

 

This is what Bruce wished, after all, Bane muses to himself as he stalks towards the alley. To strike fear into criminals, to do good for the people. Bane is merely helping, though after some time without the strenuous training of the League, he can admit that part of him relishes the chance to work his limbs, to fight.

 

The leather of his gloves creaks between his fingers when he squeezes his hands into fists, approaching the alley quickly, but with his guard up. He has not forgotten that they have enemies, and they have no way of knowing, yet, if Ra's al Ghul has entered the city. An ambush is the last thing he wishes.

 

But there is no sign of others, the alley is dark, and there are only two figures, a slighter young man, dark locks matted with blood, eyes dazed as he backs away from the larger man, a man who does not have his size, but is certainly formidable in his own rights. He is stepping back, narrowly avoiding when the smaller man shouts and swings a piece of metal pipe at him, rusted at the ends and being brandished as an improvised weapon as he shouts out, nearly spitting with rage. It is clear that being backed into a corner has brought out quite a fight in him, no matter his size. It is almost a wonder who is fighting whom.

 

His presence is noticed, and there is a curl of the smaller man’s lip, a sneer as that anger is suddenly focused on him.

 

"Oh, fuck you, gotta bring your friends into th—" the words freeze in his mouth as he raises the metal pipe over his head. The light of the alley has reached them both, and it is unmistakable, the way the red string on Bane’s finger floats through the air like the silken strand of a web, leading to his fingers, connecting them. His string, their string, hidden away in Gotham, right where fate would bring them.

 

It is a fleeting moment. The attacker has seen him, now, sees Bane as the greater threat, and he attacks. He is sloppy, easily fought off even for his size, but it is enough of a distraction that Bane only catches another glimpse slighter man, his vision obscured by the double layer of helmet and mask. He is running out of the alley as if his life were in danger, more fear in him than when he was alone in the alley and being attacked.

 

Bane’s fist draws back, and he slams it into the attacker's jaw. It looks like it has already suffered heavy damage there, and even in the confusion, he perhaps feels a measure of pride that this is from their string. It makes the man grunt out in pain, the boot to his gut, after, doubling him. Bane considers stepping on his throat, crushing his windpipe and ending things, but he briefly imagines Bruce's berating over killing a man he does not even know. It stops his foot, hovering barely an inch above his throat, and he turns away, instead, leaving the alley and stepping out into the streetlights.

 

Bane can see him, rounding the block. He looks even smaller in the distance, not as slight as his brother, but not a finely honed weapon, and in a way it makes him seem smaller. He follows him, not shouting, not wishing to draw attention, but as fast as the man would like to be, he is hurt, and Bane is able to catch up to him, sees him glance back, brown eyes suddenly spotting him.  
  
“You stay the hell away from me!” He says it when Bane is close, perhaps only an arm's length away, and Bane wants to raise his hand, reach out to still him for just a moment. If Barsad were here, it would be better. He has always been better with these things. Now, he is at a loss, hand dropping down, but not simply stopping.

 

“Please. Speak with me for a moment?” His voice echoes out from the helmet, and the young man shakes his head quickly.  
  
“No. We're not talking. This isn't happening.” There's desperateness to his tone, disbelief. Bane remembers his own experience in the pit, seeing the string connecting him to Barsad, and the sudden bitterness that had welled up in him, thinking he had never been sought out or looked for, that he had been forgotten.

 

“We were to look for you. We did not forget you. We have tried to let you know this,” he says, and he sees how the man, in this light looking no more than a boy, freezes and shakes his head.

 

“Don't you get it? I don't _want_ you looking for me!” He shouts it, anger bubbling out of him with a wave of his arms as he turns to face Bane. “I never wanted you to look for me. You've been driving me crazy. Just STOP. Stop pulling, stop touching my string. I don't want anything to do with you.” He spits out the last of it, and takes a quick step back from him, as if he is afraid that Bane will grab him up and abscond with him, as if he would resort to kidnapping their soul mate.

 

“Will you speak with me, at least, with us? I felt the same way, once—”  
  
“I'm not speaking with you, either of you. Jesus, is he here, too?” he suddenly asks, and Bane wishes to know how he knows Barsad is male, suddenly having a thought.  
  
“Have you dreamed of us, too?” All of those dreams, those cloudy visages of this boy in his head, never seeing his face, but his voice, he realizes now that it is the same.

 

“ _Don't._ ” He holds the back of his head for a moment with both hands, threading them into his hair as if to ground himself. When he drops them down to his sides, they are tinged red. Bane wonders how badly he was hurt in his recent altercation. The knuckles of his right hand are a deep purple, his cheek looks swollen, and there is a hitch to his breath each time Bane sees his chest rise and fall.

 

“You can't be here.” He whispers it out, and he sounds so defeated by the concept that a piece of Bane's heart aches quite suddenly for him. “You can't be in Gotham.”  
  
“You are hurt. You need to be treated,” Bane says, not stepping closer, but not retreating. It draws a bitter sort of laugh from the boy.  
  
“Sure. I'll go right over to the hospital. They're always so happy to treat the uninsured.”  
  
Bane's brows knit together, not understanding his meaning, but quickly gathering that he will not be going to the hospital for treatment. “I know how to treat wounds from a fight—” he tries, and the boy shakes his head quickly, wincing at the movement, after.

 

“No. No, you're not touching me. You're not following me.”

 

“I am not,” Bane agrees. “But I am attempting to help you.”

 

“I don't want your help.”

 

Frustrated with how the helmet constricts everything, makes it hard to see and hear what is in front of him, makes him feel as though he is drowning and unable to think for this strange encounter, he finally draws it off, slowly, seeing the boy more, how his pupils dilate further when his face is revealed and their eyes truly meet.

 

“Jesus, what are you?” He sits down hard on the sidewalk, staring up at him, dazed.  
  
“A monster,” Bane says simply. It comes from his mask like a quiet hiss. “And you may not want my help, but you do need it.”

 

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

Everything is hazy, and everything hurts as John stares up, squinting at the harsh light above the giant man's head. The streetlight looks like a halo, covering him with a spark of light, belaying what a danger he is to him. When he saw him in the alley, it felt as if the entire world slowed down around him when he saw that connected string. Now, he needs to leave. He can’t stay and talk, it is too dangerous.

 

But once he sits down and feels the cold concrete under his ass, it is so very hard to move. His body feels sluggish. He can feel wet at the back of his skull. The smack against the brick wall had made him see stars, and now it is making everything feel too real, and not real enough, all at once.

 

Like the man's face... He can barely see it with all of the metal and leather covering it, so tight it's like a second skin on him, like it's his real face, after all. John has never seen a mask like it before, covering up what is under it. A monster, like the man said so glibly. Why did it make so much sense that John was connected to a monster, that he'd been running from one this entire time, and hadn't even known it? He squints, then jerks back when he hears the loud revving of a motorcycle rumble through his core, making the pain in his head threaten to explode.

 

John closes his eyes to block it out, and it mercifully stops.   
  
“There you are!” The sudden shout is almost as bad, and it makes his eyelids spring open. There is something so familiar about it before it is cut off by a sharp cough. A smaller man has slid gracefully off of his motorcycle, is walking up to the monster and pulling off his own helmet. John can see how his sharp blue eyes are full of confusion.   
  
“Why are you off of your bike? I looked everywhere for you—Bane, your helmet.” The second part is softer, concerned, confused, nowhere near as confused as John is, though. Gotham is supposed to keep him safe, not from danger, or crime, but from this. They aren't supposed to be here, he knows that, and the world feels wrong. He has never felt less safe. He can see that second string trailing down from the other man's pinky, another trail to his own hands, hands that feel heavy, sluggish, like he's been tied up there and trapped by them.

 

“Barsad, look,” the monster, Bane says, his voice quiet, unsure. It is less like a monster than it should be, and John puts his hands on the concrete behind his back, a childish, ridiculous attempt to hide what will be plainly obvious, anyway, and _is_ plainly obvious to the other man. John can already hear the sharp drawing in of his breath, the murmur of something that sounds foreign and indiscernible on his tongue.

 

“What has happened? He is hurt.” The man, Barsad, drops down onto a knee, long slender fingers reaching out for him. It's enough to give John his second wind, and he nearly jumps to his feet, the ache in his head be damned.

 

“You leave me alone.” He mumbles it. The words feel sluggish on his tongue, and an ache runs through his chest when he has to cough, his damn cold not leaving him alone, even now. It makes him almost double, the pain in his ribs shooting through him. He is fucked. Not just by this. He can't afford the hospital, his job tossing newspapers is done after this, and one look at his injuries and his boss at the shop will fire him on the spot and find some less beaten-up kid to take his place. The thought makes angry heat prick at his eyes where he rubs it away with the backs of his bleeding knuckles.

 

“From what I can discern, he was defending a boy in the alley from a much larger man. I do not think he has been trained, but he was holding his own quite well in spite of his injuries.” There is pride in Bane's tone, and it fills John with a flush of shame that part of him reacts to that, and then he is just filled with contempt. How dare he act as though he has any right to be proud of John? He doesn't know him at all.

 

"Did you scare him? He looks at us as though you have been the one beating him.”

 

"Hardly.” Bane shakes his head and his brow furrows. He looks almost upset, and John doesn't care. He can't care. “Spooked would be more accurate, I believe. He wishes nothing to do with us. I think he is more like myself, with the strings, than you, brother."

 

"You didn't understand. We only need to explain—"

 

“You think I'm some idiot?” John spits out suddenly. “I'm right here, and I know exactly what the strings mean.”

 

Gotham public school system might not be all it’s cracked up to be, but they gave basic lessons on what the strings were, what they meant, and all of the theories behind them. He had sat through every class, and while the other kids had looked down at one or both hands in wonder, John had hidden his down in his pockets while he slumped on his stool.

 

“I know what they mean, and I don't care,” he finishes slowly, voice firm despite the pain running through him. “I don't want anything to do with them, or you.”

 

Barsad's attention focuses back on him. “I am sorry. I did not mean to exclude you from the conversation.” He steps forward, and John steps back, feeling the brick of the nearby apartment building touch his spine. It makes Barsad pause and continue. “Perhaps you have your reasons, understandable reasons, to not wish to meet with us, but we have met, we have seen you. Surely, you cannot expect us to see you hurt and to leave you, to never receive some sort of explanation.”

 

John closes his eyes tightly, because damn him. Damn him for making it sound so utterly _reasonable_ for John to just talk with them, for him to be right. The bell has been rung, and he isn’t ever going to just get them to go away, now. Bane has more or less saved his life, or at least stopped him from getting completely mashed into pulp, and if he were in his place, he wouldn't just let someone go who looked as bad off as he must right now, string or not.

 

“I can't go to the hospital. There's a clinic. I'll go there. You don't have to worry about me. I'm going to be fine,” he tries, opening his eyes, trying to look like he's in so much less pain than he is.

 

It doesn't work. “A clinic? At this time of night?” Barsad shakes his head. “They will not be open again until morning, and then there is only a chance you will get in if you get there early enough. We have first aid supplies, and a pair of old hands that are more adept at treating wounds than most doctors. Please... Come with us. You do not need to speak with us, not while you are in pain, let us simply patch you up.”

 

That has to be the worst idea. How is he supposed to trust them? _They're you're strings, they won't hurt you_. The idea curls up in his mind, completely unbidden. It's a sign of just what a bad idea this is, but fuck, he hurts. Everything just hurts, and he can't imagine he is going to be let back into the shelter looking like this. They have a policy against fights, and they are busy enough that it's a one strike and you were out kind of place. He can't go back to living on the streets, again. He just can't bring himself to do that. He'd just been thinking about college, at the beginning of the night, as a real possibility, and now he feels like he has nothing all over again.

 

“You have to promise me.” He bites down on the tremor in his voice. “Promise me that we're just going to get me patched up, that you won't make me stay.”

 

“You have my word,” Barsad says, and he looks up towards Bane, who nods his head slowly.

 

“You have our word,” he agrees without hesitation.

 

They're promising, but it still feels like John is giving in to something terrible when he gives a short nod of his head. It feels like his entire chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with broken ribs, and everything to do with his heart beating too fast, wanting what he refuses to give it for its own safety.

 

"I am sure a car would be better in your condition, but... Here." Barsad holds out his helmet for him. "Bane's bike is more suited to hold another. You will ride with him."

 

Great.

 

It's about the last thing he wants. He's just going to get treated, then he's going to leave and forget about this. That's his mantra, and he repeats it to himself as he gingerly pulls the helmet on with broken knuckles, and forces his leg up over the saddle of the bike.

 

He doesn't know where he's going when Bane takes his place. Bane's body blocks a whole lot of the street from view as he reluctantly, very reluctantly, settles against his massive frame. It's probably some biker bar, John muses to himself, and almost laughs, trying to see. They're moving too fast, though, and the thrum of the bike running through him is almost soothing. He's tired enough, from his injuries and so many nights of lost sleep, that when he lays his head against Bane's back, it's comfortable. He closes his eyes behind the helmet, willing his grip on Bane's jacket to remain tight. The last thing he needs right now is to fall off.

 

John's focus comes back, though, when he realizes that the streets seem to be getting more open, that the traffic is thinning, and he might know Gotham well, but he isn't sure exactly where they could be going. It's pointless to ask, though. Bane would never hear him over the sound of the bikes. So instead, he turns his head, watches as the glow of streetlights passing them suddenly begins to morph into trees, into grass, into a set of open gates, and he has begun to suspect, but he honestly can only stare in a confused, stunned silence as the bikes speed past the gates and into the grounds of Wayne Manor.

 

Suddenly in the city, Bruce Wayne was suddenly in back in the city too. Those things couldn't be a coincidence and as much as John's brain hurt at the moment, he couldn't stop it from trying to solve the puzzle. Too bad it felt like the pieces were slipping out from between his fingers.

 

“What are we doing here?” he asks, trying not to let his mouth drop open as he stares up at the mansion. He's kind of always wanted to see what it looks like, just a peek. It was beautiful, especially in the moonlight, and away from the smog and light pollution of the city he could actually see that moonlight shouting down on it.

 

“It is where you will be stitched up,” Barsad says, and John follows him up the stairway, but he jerks his elbow away when Barsad reaches to steady him.

 

“They will likely have beaten us here,” Bane says as he raps his knuckles firmly across the door several times, a polite warning of sorts before he just opens it for them, standing aside and letting John through.

 

“Is he here?” he can't help but ask. It shouldn't matter, he just needs to get patched up and go, but he can't help but be curious if he's going to see Bruce Wayne. He hears someone clear their throat and, yeah, there he is, Bruce Wayne walking down the stairs, definitely not dressed for company, a towel hung over his shoulders and the dampness of water clinging to his hair.  
  
“I didn't know you'd be bringing back company. Actually, I didn't know you'd be going out, at all.” He smiles at John, and John might possibly have a concussion but that doesn't mean that he doesn't realize it's fake, not rude, but cautious. It makes him want to be there even less. Maybe these guys weren't even supposed to be there. It wasn't like Bruce Wayne seemed like one for company that didn't fit into the young billionaire crowd.

 

“It was quite unexpected,” Bane says, not at all seeming deterred. “He is injured, and we needed to be able to access some medical supplies.”

 

“We'll have Alfred look at him.” Wayne finally looks at him, really looks at him, not just a glossing over. John isn't sure he likes it. “He'll take good care of you. Come on.”

 

He's being gotten rid of so this can be discussed, John can tell, but he really does need to sit down and maybe get some aspirin in him, so for now he doesn't argue. He follows Wayne, and he's given a nod, off to a dining room, something surprisingly smaller than he was expecting, with a long, wooden rectangular table, silver candlesticks and lacy white place mats for maybe eight. It can't be the main one, not for the parties Wayne Manor has been famous for, and the idea of more than one dining room leaves John momentarily overwhelmed at the very thought.

 

He rests his hand on the smooth, cool wood as he sits down stiffly, considering laying his head down on it to help the ache.

 

“Good evening.” John's head snaps up, and he winces at the sudden motion. An older man is standing in the doorway, a small tray in his hands as he walks closer to John.

 

“You're Alfred?”

 

“I am, and you have had quite a bit of a bad scrape, I see.” Alfred sits down slowly at the chair beside him, reaching to turn on a nearby lamp to brighten the room more. It makes starbursts blare in front of John's eyes, but he recognizes it's needed so the older man can see the damage.

 

“I'm fine, sir.” He tries at least, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes to keep out the glare.  
  
“You may call me Alfred.” The rest is ignored politely as he pulls a pair of spectacles from his waist pocket, and balances them over his nose. His hands are far steadier than John's. He cleans his knuckles with disinfectant, studies his ribs, his head, his busted lips, and does what he can for all of it. John asks if he's a doctor or was one, and it gets a small laugh, a little smile stretching across his face.

 

“No. My rates are much more affordable. I have simply grown quite used to patching up others over the years.” He lets John put his shirt back on, his ribs taped, his knuckles bandaged, and an icepack laid carefully against the back of his head.

 

“There we are. It might have been much worse, I imagine. You'll need to take the tape off soon, for your lungs’ sake, but for now, it should help with the pain. Here. These are just a small something else to take the edge off of things, young sir,” Alfred says politely as he sets down a small plate on the table containing two plain white pills. John can't help but wonder if they're prescription. He swallows them down anyway, with a quiet thank you and a gulp of cold water from an offered tall glass.

 

“It's rather late. I'm sure you'd like some rest. I'll turn down one of the guest rooms.”

 

John nearly chokes on his swallow of water, letting the glass drop from his lips as he shakes his head, struggling not to cough and upset his ribs. “No. I'll rest better in my own bed, thanks.”

 

“I was given the impression you'd be staying the evening.” Alfred manages to make it not sound like he's politely trying to keep him there. John almost smiles. It doesn't feel threatening from him, like he's trying to force. He can tell while he looks over his injuries again that he just wants him to heal up. It’s nice. It's something he hasn't felt in a long, long time. It almost feels wrong to lie.

 

“I have to get home, thanks. My… my parents will worry.” It's a word he hasn't said so long that his lips almost waver when the word comes out of his mouth.

 

“Well, young sir, I can certainly understand that.”

 

“It's John,” he interrupts and almost feels bad for it, because John suddenly is remembering all of the manners his mother tried to instill in him before she was gone. He wonders if it's the accent or the parental care he can feel Alfred practically giving off in waves. He really can't take being called 'young sir', though. It's just too weird.

 

“John,” Alfred corrects, and doesn't seem ruffled by it. “Might I suggest we give your parents a call? I remember back in my younger days, believe it or not, and when I had gotten into a row I would much rather sleep it off at the home of a friend’s and come home the next evening slightly less worse for the ware than to let my dear mother see the brunt of it.”

 

He nearly bites his tongue. It’s so damn nice, and it makes it so much harder to keep lying. He can't stay here, though. He has to get out of here, and, hopefully, get back to the shelter, pray that he for once has a little bit of luck and he doesn’t get booted. He's cleaned up, now. It's so late, but he might be able to slip in, tell them the job ran late, and get his bed still. He has to. He can't do the parks, again. That took more out of him than he likes to think about.

 

“That's really thoughtful. Maybe I could use one of your phones? Mine was busted. I'll at least give them a call and fess up, tell them I'm headed home, though.” He says the last part firmly, and Alfred seems to get the idea at least.

 

“Of course. There is one just down the hall, in the kitchen. I shall escort you.”

 

“You've done enough, really.” John stands slowly, forcing a small smile onto his mouth, feeling it stretch the barely scabbing over split on his lip. “I can't thank you enough. You really saved me on my health insurance deductible.”

 

It draws an amused chuckle from Alfred, who begins to clean up the tray. “Very well. It is the third doorway on the left. I shall be here, if you have need of me.”

 

“Yeah, ok.” John gives him a short nod and tries not to hobble too badly. The painkillers are helping, sort of. They're also making him woozy. The lines between the floorboards waver if he focuses on them too long as he walks. He blinks them away, and makes his way towards the kitchen. His hand drops down from the brass handle. There's a shadow under the doorway, blocking the light before it moves, and he hears the quiet muffle of voices.

 

There's no way he isn’t sticking his ear to the door and listening, doesn't matter if his head hurts doing it.

 

“He held his own quite admirably, but he's gaunt, clearly underfed.” John’s pretty sure its Barsad, and he feels pretty damn self-conscious when he realizes there's no way they're not talking about him. It shouldn't be that obvious, not to them, not to anyone.   
  
“One might say the same of you,” Bane's voice points out calmly, getting a distasteful noise of disagreement.  
  
“I am lean. Shaped by training. He needs several meals and a warm bed.”

 

“You don't know that he doesn't have that.” Bruce's voice, maybe. There's too many in there, and his head isn't exactly at its best. “He could be in college. You should see how haggard some of the other guys in Princeton looked during finals.”

 

“I don't think he goes to Princeton, Bruce.” Barsad's voice is as dry as John's mouth feels at the moment.

 

“You don't know _anything_ about him, Barsad. You don't even know his name.”

 

“There is no need to fight over this.” A fourth voice? It has to be, because this one sounds like a woman. “Of course they could not leave him beaten and bruised on the sidewalk. He is their string, what else could they be expected to do?”

 

“Take him to a hospital. It's too risky for him to be here. What if he had come in while—”  
  
There was a sudden clearing of someone's throat and John flicks his eyes down to see the shadows and light under the doorframe moving. He snaps up quickly, feeling all the more dizzy for doing so, but at least he has the forethought to put his hand to the door and push it open. Better to expose himself than be directly caught in the act of spying on... whatever was happening.

 

The door opens and John feels a sudden drop in his stomach just at seeing Barsad again. The string on his hand is too bright and vibrant and visible as it leads up to his. “I was just—I need to call my parents, let them know I'm on my way home.”

 

“I was under the impression you would be staying,” the woman speaks up, her brow arching.  
  
“If he wants to go, no one is keeping him, Talia.” Barsad's voice is clearly more directed towards him than Talia. “Why don't we go, for now? You can tell us of your evening.”

 

It's a clear attempt to give space, and it's nice of him. It's a relief when Bane and Talia follow him out and down the hall. John pushes aside that idea, especially when Bruce Wayne looks at him, gives him his best fake smile and tells him he'll be waiting right in the hall.

 

Listening. That part isn't said, but John isn't stupid, and he's just learned firsthand how easy it is to hear from the hall. Bruce doesn't even close the door. John has a good view of him standing in the hall and waiting patiently for him to finish.

 

He makes his way to the phone. It's a real vintage deal. It sort of matches the rest of the house, he supposes, as his hand lifts the receiver. His fingers linger over the buttons, and he's quiet for a few minutes. He presses a few finally, not sure how much he needs to sell the show, if Bruce would be able to tell or not from the hall.

 

The number is disconnected. That doesn't surprise him. It was when he was pulled from the small apartment, and it probably has been for years. He's just glad it was never reassigned. Getting a complete stranger right now would be more than awkward.

 

"Hey, uh, mom?" He almost chokes on the word. It's been so fucking long since its left his mouth.

 

He waits a second, listening to static on the other end, trying to ignore Bruce's eyes on him. He doesn't want to do this. He should have said dad. Dad hurt less, dad was at least somewhat soured by what his father had become when his mother left them, something he'd only realized years later down the road. Mom, though, that was what came out without a moment’s thought, and there's such an ache in his chest that he can barely keep up this stupid game.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know it's late. I just—I got into a bit of a mess, ok? No, no, I'm ok.” He goes on for a little, closing his eyes for a minute and letting his forehead rest against the cool wall as he talks, pretends he's telling her he's ok, that he'll be home soon. He just needs to keep quiet for a few minutes, pretend he's listening, before he wraps it up, but the painkillers and the blow to the head, they're all getting to him and his vision feels blurry. That's all it is. That's all it is when he keeps talking to her, hearing nothing but static, and it's so dumb, it's so fucking dumb, but he can't bite it back at the end. It tumbles out of his mouth, and he nearly chokes up again, his throat feeling raw when he whispers it softly.

 

"I'll see you soon. I love you, mom." He barely gets it out, feels a trail of wetness drip down his cheek and drop down onto his shoe. It's just the painkillers. That's all. It's been a really rough night. He wipes his hand over his eyes, and sniffs quietly as he hooks the phone back onto the receiver.

 

“I'm ready to go.” John's voice is soft as he steps out into the hall. As much as he hates to admit it, he knows he needs a ride. He'd be walking all night just to get back to the city, otherwise. He just sort of hopes Alfred will be the one to give it.   
  
There's no such luck, though. Bruce stands up from his casual lean against the wall.

 

“I'll give you a ride.”

 

He's grateful for that, at least. It might not be Alfred, but it's not Bane or Barsad. He can just get out of here. They don't know him. It's a big city, and they won't be able to find him if John is careful. This can just be put down as a really bad night. He's allowed to have those.

 

“Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

“You're just going to let him leave?” Talia asked, surprised. Barsad cannot blame her. The entire evening has been a surprise. It was supposed to be about her mission with Bruce, putting the mob criminal, Falcone, on display, but it has not even been discussed yet, thanks to this strange circumstance.

 

“We cannot force him to stay, can we? We are not kidnappers, and he clearly wanted nothing to do with us.” The idea is a painful thing. His private discussions with Bane, their tentative dreams of finding their third now have a sting to them.

 

“Perhaps if we had talked to him more.” Bane is at the window, his fingers against the glass pane as he watches the car driving past the gates of the manor. “I did not understand...”

 

“You grew up in a different place, Bane,” Barsad points out gently. “Children here are taught what their strings mean early in life. They are celebrated. For him to wish nothing to do with it... it is very unusual.”

 

“It speaks of a private pain,” Alfred speaks up from the doorway, entering the study with them. “And pain is very good at making us distant from others.”

 

Barsad takes a step towards the older man. “Did he speak to you, at all, about it?”

 

“Not a word, but, if I may, there was a familiarity to him. He reminded me of Master Bruce as a boy.” Alfred stops and chuckles quietly. “He reminded me of Master Bruce as a young gentleman, too, before he found... well.” His eyes go towards Talia's, and he smiles before he completes his thought. “I would have to guess that something happened to him, something when he was young, for him to be as skittish towards you as you say. There are, unfortunately, many things that can go wrong in a young boy's life.”

 

They all knew that well enough. Barsad sighed, frustrated, uncertain how to even approach this. “We certainly cannot simply let this go, never to hear from him again, without even an explanation. Perhaps when he is healed. He had a bad blow to the head, a bad night, indeed. Maybe he would be more willing to at least speak with us on better terms.”

 

“How would you even find him, brother? Gotham is a large city, there are millions of citizens, and we do not even know this one's name.”

 

“His name is John, actually,” Alfred supplies helpfully, “but I'm afraid it's quite a common name in this country.”

 

“John.” Barsad tests out the name in his mouth. 'Barsad, Bane... John.' The corner of his mouth twitches at the strangeness of it. How perfect. “We need to speak with him. We can let him know that whatever is wrong, whatever it is he fears... we will make this work.” He knows perhaps it is the wrong time, but his fingers reach down and he gently plucks his string between them.

 

____________________

  
“Oh fuck off.” John mumbles it, eyes closed tightly to block out the city lights. His stomach is in knots, even if the pain in his head has ebbed away a hell of a lot better with the painkillers. He rubs over his hand, and hears Bruce make an inquisitive noise. He can't blame him, it's the first thing he's said since he's stepped foot in the car.  
  
“It's, fuck, it's nothing.” He opens his eyes and looks at the street signs. It had taken a little bit of thinking. He wasn't about to have Bruce drop him off at the shelter. One, his lie would be obvious, then, and two, then they would know where he lives, or, well, at least where he hopes he lives. He is cleaned up, now, he could tell them his job ran late, maybe he'll still have a bed to sleep in tonight.

 

He hopes, anyway.

 

They're coming up to a different building, now. Apparently, on top of all of the crazy and his injuries, tonight is a night for a trip down memory fucking lane, because when Bruce asked him for an address, there was only one place he could think of telling him to go.

 

He swallows down the lump in his throat when they pull up to the old apartment complex. It looks a whole lot fucking worse for wear, which is saying a lot because it was close to a slum, before. Now there is no questioning it. At least he won’t have to worry about getting buzzed in at the front entrance. He doubts it’s even locked. The stoop is cracked, and John suddenly remembers playing on it, swinging on the black guard rail and jumping off into his father’s arms. He digs his nails into his arms and pushes the thought aside.

 

“This is me.” He says it quietly, not caring what Bruce thinks of the place. It's not like he'd get a better reaction having him drive him to the front door of the homeless shelter. “Uh, thanks for the ride,” he says, not really sure what else he should be saying for Bruce Wayne giving him a ride. When he reaches for the belt buckle, his hand stops over the release mechanism, because Bruce Wayne is _parking,_ and that can't be good.

 

“What are you doing?” He tries not to sound worried, and he's not sure how much he succeeds in that, especially when Bruce shuts off the car and reaches for his own belt, glancing over at him.

 

“Bane and Barsad told me what happened. I thought it was the least we could do, someone explaining it to your parents. It'll sound a lot more plausible coming from someone who isn't just trying to get out of trouble.”

 

“You don't have to do that,” John argues quickly. “It's fine. They're not going to be mad I got beat up—” He stops because that sounds just wrong. “I mean, they'll understand, they'll believe me, and it's not like I'm not an adult, I can fight my own battles. Besides. You don't want to leave a car like this alone, out here.”

 

“I'm sure it'll last at least five minutes. Let's go.” Bruce is out of the car before he can stop him, and it's too much. He's been through too much that night, and usually it's the anger that comes out, bubbles out of him when he's overstressed, but all of that had already spilled over while he was fighting off that kid’s attacker. He's got nothing left.

 

“Why can't you just leave me the fuck alone!”

 

So maybe there's some anger left. It's extinguished like blowing on a candle, though, and John knows he has to get out of the car sometime, but somehow he finds himself drawing his legs up onto the expensive leather seats and wrapping his arms around them like he's never going to move again.

 

Bruce's fingers are suddenly present at the rim of the open car window, and he's bending down to look into the car. He doesn't look surprised, and fuck him, just fuck him for that.

 

“This isn't your place, is it?”

 

“Yes it is.” John stares out hard through the windshield, as if, if he just sticks to this stupid lie, maybe Bruce will believe him and just let it the fuck go.

 

“Then let’s head in.”

 

“ _Fuck_ you.”

 

“How about you tell me what's going on, instead,” Bruce's voice is quieter, “because when you put in your phone call, it sounded a lot like it was to someone you hadn't spoken to in years, someone who maybe isn't around, anymore.”

 

John sucks in a quick breath. His eyes are stinging, and he swipes at them roughly. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

 

“Yeah, I do. Because it's how I've sounded, when I've talked to them.”

 

John doesn't have to ask. He knows, and he knows Bruce knows, now, too. He hates the wetness leaking out of the corners of his eyes. He got over this years ago. He's not that same kid. He barely even remembers them. It shouldn't make him do this.

 

“I don't want to talk about it,” he whispers quietly.

 

Bruce nods, standing up and walking back around the car, back into his seat and closing the door. His hands go to the wheel as he looks over at him. “Do you have a place to stay?”

 

“Yeah.” John takes a slow breath and blows it out, making himself gain back control. He wipes his hands on his pants and keeps his voice steady. He refuses to let himself be ashamed of it. “One of the shelters. I need to get back, or they might give my bed away, and, no offense, but I don't want you knowing where it is. You might tell them.”

 

“I'd like to say I'd promise not to, but I don't know if it'd be a promise I could keep. I think they'd really like to at least talk to you, when you're feeling better.”

 

“That's exactly why I don't want you knowing. You know them, not me. I'm just some kid off the streets, and you'll be thinking to yourself maybe it wouldn't be so bad to just tell them. Heck, it's for the kid's own good.” John spits out the last part bitterly, biting the inside of his cheek.

 

Bruce looks at him quietly before he changes the subject. “It's almost 4am. Are they even going to let you into the shelter, now?

 

“They have to.” He doesn't mean to make it sound so desperate, but the idea of losing that after tonight, and having to find a park bench, instead, is unbearable.

 

“Alright. You don't have to tell me where. I'm getting you out of this neighborhood, at least.”

 

John almost laughs. The block the shelter is situated on isn't too much better, really, but fine. If it makes Bruce feel better. He just nods a little and curls up on the seat more, feeling drained as the streets pass by.

 

They're getting farther out of the rougher neighborhoods, and it's going to take forever for him to walk back to the shelter at this rate. Bruce pulls the car over, and John gets out without a word. There's a glint of light reflected from the street lamps suddenly, and John only manages to catch the key that's removed from Bruce's keyring and tossed to him out the widow purely by instinct.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“I figured I'd make things a little easier for you. That's the key to a penthouse apartment over...” Bruce leans to point through the window, “there. It's a place that gets kept in my family’s name. It wouldn’t always do to bring back the wild parties to Wayne Manor.”

 

John's stunned, but not too stunned to open his mouth quickly. Bruce holds up a hand to let him finish. “I have the feeling you're going to tell me that you can't take charity. I understand that, but I also understand you've had a really hard night, and there's a clean bed up there waiting for you. You don't have to tell me if you're going there or not, you can leave whenever you want, tomorrow, or ten months from now, and I won't know. That means I'm not lying to them when I say I have no idea where you are. For all I know, you just tucked the key under the mat after I gave it to you and left.” Bruce pauses and tilts his head just a little. “But I secretly will be hoping you didn’t. Goodnight.”

 

He drives away then, without another word, and John is left staring down at the small silver key in his hand. There are a million reasons John shouldn't go up and take that apartment. Fuck, they probably won't even let him into the building if they see him like this. But the thought of lying down on what is probably an amazing bed, of having a single fucking moment actually alone and to himself, not sharing it with dozens of others piled up in bunks... A hot shower...  
  
He squeezes the key tightly in his fist and slowly makes his way to the high-rise Bruce pointed out.

 

____________________

 

“He returned home safely?” Bane asks quietly, watching as Bruce walks into the sitting room. Barsad fell asleep against his side long ago, while he played a game of cards with Talia.

 

“I got him to bed,” Bruce says as he takes a seat by Talia, sighing. It has been easy to forget that it has been a long night for him, as well. Bane nods to him slightly, a small thank you for giving John a ride home after the events of the day.

 

“Good,” Bane answers softly, looking down contemplatively at the strings between his folded hands.

 

“You know where he is staying, then?” Talia asks, cutting right to the chase, and clearly reading Bane's thoughts.

 

Bruce shakes his head. “It was a figure of speech, sorry. Your boy really doesn't want to be found. He had me drop him off what I'm guessing is a few blocks away from his house. He was fine, though.”

 

“That is not his bed, at all.” Talia folds her cards in her lap, and turns towards Bruce. “He has already managed to have trouble find him once, tonight.” Her lips purse into a small frown. Bane is touched to see that his worry has become her worry, but he reaches across the small coffee table to gently touch her leg.

 

“He is clearly strong. I am certain he made it to his bed on his own, thank you.”

 

Talia nods slowly, letting the matter drop. Bruce looks slightly relieved. He is clearly uncertain how to handle arguing with her still. It is also quite clear that, in some ways, he is used to always getting his way, and he is trying not to behave in such a way. It is commendable, but as tempting as it is, he simply cannot agree with everything she says. It strikes Bane as slightly amusing that Bruce has had the most interaction with people, out of all of them, and yet he seems to understand how to interact with them, at least on a personal level, the least.

 

It is clearly time for a subject change, and Bruce's eyes go over to the television. “Is it showing on the news, yet?”  
  
“Ah, yes. It has been, since the moment we checked. I assume you would like to see your handiwork?” Bane cannot help but be amused, having seen the coverage, already. He presses the button to the television remote, and it seems that the media is still not quite over the events of that evening. Bane wonders how much they will replay the footage. Surely this is at least the dozenth time. It flashes across the screen, Falcone trussed up against a spotlight and left as a gift for the local police department, surrounded by his own drug shipments. Incriminating, indeed.

 

“You seemed to have fun with it,” Bane says, and he can see a small twitch of Bruce's lips.  
  
“Just a little.”  
  
Talia shakes her head. “He was quite exuberant, in his own way.”

 

“You had fun, too.”

 

“I did no such thing. I was merely working.” Talia purses her lips, indignant at the very suggestion she might have fun in her mission. “And there is much more work to do.” They have found out more information from tonight's affairs. Falcone's shipments are being split, one half to dealers, one half to a mysterious second party. They must learn more, but all of them feel this could be a lead. What better way for Ra's Al Ghul to ship supplies into Gotham than by an already well-traveled, illicit route?

 

“What is our next step?” Bane asks, drawing their attention back to business.

 

“I have to make sure Rachel is safe.”

 

“Of course.” Talia nods. “She will be needed.” They have not met Bruce's childhood friend, but he speaks of her with fondness, an intimacy to his tone that he has for few. When they had listened in to Falcone's illicit plans, via careful stalking of the building and placed wires, they had heard of the man's plans for her.

 

The wires had been quickly destroyed, something the mob boss must be quite used to, but they had seen the sudden darker look flash through Bruce's eyes when she had been threatened. Ms. Rachel Dawes was a very important part of him. Bane had asked him, after, and he had spoken of his childhood somewhat, of a string who never pulled, feeling alone and separated from other children. Rachel had been much the same, and they had grown up together, until the incident that had taken Bruce's parents.

 

“ _Growing up, I had this idea in my head that we'd somehow end up together,_ ” _Bruce admits, setting down the small picture frame, a young boy and girl smiling together, posed at a fancy party for the privileged._

 

_Barsad gives him a sharp look, annoyed, and Bruce suddenly laughs, dryly. “It's in the past, and Talia knows what she means to me. She said... she's gotten used to sharing the hearts of those she loves.” He glances at them both, and the sharp look on Barsad's face is replaced by one of near sheepishness._

 

“Will you tell her that her life is in danger?” Talia asks, and Bruce shakes his head.  
  
“She's smart enough to know. She's also brave enough to not care, if it means doing the right thing.”

 

____________________

 

John grunts and covers his hands over his ears. The sudden, sharp sound of the television fills the room. He doesn't mind TV, but he hates that the first thing the asshole in the bunk next to him does is turn his little hand held on as loud as it goes, first thing in the morning.

 

“Bruce? Come on, wake up, you weren't answering the door. I was just going out when I heard Carl at the front desk mention that you'd come in last night—”

 

John sits up quickly, the thick comforter and other blankets he'd burrowed under the previous night pooling around his bare torso as he finds himself staring up at a sharply-dressed, young, brunette woman holding stacks and stacks of what have to be important documents.

 

“Oh!—I didn't…” Her hand reaches to quickly turn off the TV she'd turned on to wake him, shifting the folders to one arm, jostling them. John watches as they slide down, cascading like a waterfall of paperwork and piling in a heap on the floor. “Shit, shit.”

 

John disentangles himself from the blankets and rolls out of the bed, quickly, to help her scooping them up. He knew he should have left when he'd woken up first, that morning. The night before, he'd debated and debated before he finally walked into the apartment complex, sure that he'd get kicked out the second he went through the revolving door. He certainly had gotten an eyebrow raise from the front desk, because apparently places this fucking fancy have 24 hour desk service for apartment homes.

 

“ _Can I help you, young man?” The guy at the front desk looks dubious of John's reasons for being there, but he wasn't just kicking him right out, at least. He had seen himself in the reflecting glass of the revolving door, and he hadn't looked TOO bad, all things considered... Well, it could be worse, anyway. At least Alfred cleaned him up pretty good._

 

“ _I'm a, uh, guest, of Bruce Wayne's.” He lets the key clatter onto the front desk, proof, or at least proof that he's good at stealing keys or something, and that he's got a lot of nerve. “I had a spill on my bike, Bruce said I could spend the night here.” He wants to add a 'call him if you don't believe me', but it sounds too quick to defend himself. Instead, he looks up at the man, quietly waiting to be given the boot, or the cops called on him._

 

_What he doesn't expect is for the guy to glance down at his hand. John hates that, his hand covering itself defensively, and for some reason the gesture just makes the older man smile warmly. “Well then, sir.” Thick fingers slide the key back over the counter towards him. “The penthouse's private elevator is just to your left. Will you be needing anything?”_

 

_He doesn't get it, at first. Not until after he's dumbly standing in a fucking private elevator and feeling it hum under his feet as he's taken to the very top of the complex, when the doors chime open and he's staring at the biggest apartment he's seen in his life. The man thought he was Bruce Wayne's string._

 

_The thought makes him laugh, dryly, as he walks across the soft carpeting, kicking off his shoes and feeling his toes sink into the plushness of it. Go figure. He can’t care now, though. As dumb as agreeing to stay here was, it is just for the night. One night, and he really wants a fucking shower, a hot one._

 

_He's pretty sure he's spent an hour in it, breathing in the hot steam and feeling it fill his sore lungs, the water pressure better than anything he's ever felt. All of the dirt and grime scrubbed clean off of him ages ago as he just stands under the near scalding spray, feeling it ease away so many aches inside of him that he wonders if he could just sleep like this._

 

_It feels wrong to put his filthy clothes back on after that, and he pads around the apartment tentatively, wrapped in a towel, feeling as though he's going to get booted out in it, for trespassing, at any moment. The place feels more like a hotel than anything else. It's as clean as one, nicely decorated, but in some ways... empty. John explores, and who wouldn't, honestly? He hesitates when he finds some sleep pants. They're a bit too big for him, but he somehow knows Bruce won't care if he wears them, so after some debate, he slips the silky clothing on and sinks into the bed. It’s just as huge and soft as he'd figured it would be, and he pulls so many blankets over himself that he's cocooned completely._

 

_It feels good, safe. It's been a long, long time since John has felt safe, and he wakes up, knowing it's still early, that he's only been asleep for a couple of hours, but he should get out, try and go salvage his job at the shop, if he still has it._

 

_But he's tired, he's so warm, here, and he's so tired. He can't remember the last time he was able to wake up and just sleep again, when his sleep had been dreamless and sweet. He shouldn't be making life decisions when he's so drowsy, but the idea comes that he could just not go. He could just stay here, just for a couple of days, a week, tops. He has a little money saved, not a lot, but enough for cheap food, enough that, if he studies and passes admissions for school, is able to get a scholarship and student loans, if he scrounges around for a new job... A better job._

 

_There is a suit in that closet. It won’t fit for shit, but it is a hell of a lot better for an interview. He has a number to give places, not the number for a shelter, a good number, where he might actually got a callback, fuck. He could go to school, maybe, get out of there and share a dorm, actually have a chance. It's not the kind of decision to make like this, when he's so warm and half asleep. There's a million factors to consider... And not a one of them are enough to keep him awake._

 

Clearly, that was a crazy notion, because now he is here, not knowing at all what to say to this woman who clearly knows Bruce, and would probably know he doesn’t really know him, wasn't an old friend or anything. Fuck, maybe this was his string.

 

“Sorry,” he finally says, voice raspy with sleep. The sudden movements send a sharp pain through his ribs, but he's not too bad off with how much heat he soaked into them from the shower the night before. He starts piling up the folders carefully with her. When he glances at the titles, they look like legal documents. He hopes they're not too out of order for her, because he has no idea how to put them back together.

 

“No, no, I'm sorry,” she quickly asserts, as she carefully kneels after slipping off her high heels. “I didn't know—” She stops, and gives him a small smile. It's nice, more genuine than anything John can muster these days. “I just thought it would be Bruce. I didn't know you would both be.” Her eyes glance down at his hand.

 

Oh.

 

He finds himself shaking his head before he can stop himself. A front doorman is one thing, someone who clearly knows Bruce well, is friends with him maybe, that's another. “I'm not. I'm just, well, he said I could spend some time here.”

 

“You know him? From when he was away?” she guesses as they finally finishes tucking away stray papers.

 

“I know him, sorta,” John answers, not really sure what else to say about it. “I mean, we're not like friends, I, well, I mean, that sounds mean.” He can't help but laugh a little. He's surprised when she joins in, quietly, and shakes her head.

 

“No, no, I get it... Bruce doesn't really have friends.” She smiles a little when she says it, though, not to be mean, almost sounding a little sad. John gets it. He doesn't have friends, either. “I'm Rachel.”

 

“John,” he answers back, automatically. “Sorry you thought I was him.”

 

“It's ok.” She stands carefully with the paperwork, tucking it under her arm. “I just haven't seen him in a long time, so when I heard he was here, I thought I'd stop in before work.”

 

“Yeah, I get that.” John laughs a little dryly, finding a stray paper and dropping back down to pick it up. “Looks like you've got your work cut out for you. Let me help you get them to your car.” It's the least he can do after giving her a pretty strange morning. She starts to turn him down, but he's already grabbing his coat off of the counter, zipping it over his bare chest. “Nah, come on, let me give you a hand.”

 

“Alright.” She shrugs finally, and lets him take part of the stack. “But you'll be carrying them a couple of blocks. The garage was full, and not every apartment has a private parking spot.”

 

“You carrying these all around the city?” He can't help but glance down at her heels. “You need an assistant.”

 

She purses her lips a little before nodding. “Try telling my boss that. Pushing papers isn't exactly the glamorous sort of job most take on for minimum wage, not for the hours I work, and I won't let him hire an unpaid intern. It feels a little too much like slave labor.”

 

Maybe it's crazy for him to say, but it's been a pretty crazy morning, a pretty crazy night, and he's had to be opportunistic over the years, snag whatever prospects are dangled in front of him. Minimum wage might not sound good to someone with a degree looking to make their way into the business world, but it's a hell of a lot better than he's ever made under the table at every job he's ever been able to get a hold of.

 

“You seriously hiring? Because I don't exactly have anything solid, right now...” He lets his voice trail. If she thinks he's from out of town, it would make sense for him not to have anything secure here, especially if he was just staying at some place of Bruce's.

 

She tilts her head at him, surprised, and John is ok with the brush off he's about to get. He's sure it will be a lot more polite from her than any of the others he's gotten over the years.

 

“Alright.”

 

“W—” He stops himself. Shock probably isn't the best thing to be showing here. “You're sure?”

 

“Bruce trusts you with his penthouse. I think I can trust you with paperwork and coffee,” Rachel answers with a small laugh. “Can you start today?”

 

“I can start in five minutes, if you can wait for me to get changed.”

 

“Make it three. I really do have to get to work.”

 

“Three,” he agrees quickly, carefully setting down the papers and rushing into the walk-in closet. He guesses he will be wearing something of Bruce's, after all. He’s quietly thankful none of it is musty. It's only been here for how many years? At least Bruce was a little smaller, then, too. The first button down shirt and slacks he grabs fit him better than he expected they ever would. His fingers fumble over the tiny buttons, in his haste, but he's dressed, hopefully not looking too completely out of place in it. There's shoes, too, he’s grateful to notice.

 

A quick glance in the mirror makes him freeze. He might as well be looking at a completely different person. Even his hair looks different. It's been a while since he's had a cut, and with it scrubbed so clean, it's curling softly around his ears, thankfully not too mussed from sleeping. The only visual sign left of his fight the night before is some purpling around his lip. He looks, well, normal. It's a little disconcerting, really.

 

He walks out of the closet quickly, carrying a tie, and it must be clear that he looks lost, because she's suddenly setting down her half of the paperwork and reaching for it.

 

“How is it that men wear these more than women,” she says, as she loops it around his neck, her hands putting it into a neat knot, tightening it carefully as her bottom lip goes between her teeth in concentration, “and yet we're the only ones who seem to know how to tie them?

 

John swallows, letting his fingers trace down the smooth fabric, not knowing how to answer that. She doesn't seem to expect him to, though, already picking up her paperwork. “Thank you, Ms...”

 

“It's still Rachel, John.” Her lips twist with amusement, and her heels click when she steps into the elevator.

 

Assistant DA. That's her job. He manages to find it out in a round-about way, not wanting to point out that he really has no idea what she is besides, clearly, really dedicated. As soon as they get to the court, she sends him out for breakfast for herself and a couple of others, telling him to get something for himself, too, with the twenty she tucks into his hands. He practically inhales the sausage sandwich the second he manages to rip the foil off of it with one hand, balancing a bag and coffees in the other.

 

Mostly, he finds himself tailing her, making notes, doing copies, filing, researching, and answering a phone or two. It's a whole lot less backbreaking than anything he's done before, and the system doesn't seem that hard to figure out, even though she seems impressed that he took to it so quickly. She wasn’t kidding when she warned about overtime. It's a long day. They stepped into the offices around nine, a later day for her, apparently, and it's well-past seven at night now, and she doesn't seem to have plans to stop. He's trying not to, but he feels his eyes drooping as he looks through a couple of notes in different folders for her.

 

Even if the work he's been given has been pretty humdrum, the day sure hasn't. The entire office has been buzzing, and John figures out why after he catches sight of a newspaper on his break. A masked vigilante, two, if certain eye witnesses can be trusted, have somehow strung up Falcone, fucking FALCONE, at one of his own crime scenes. Jesus fucking Christ. The kind of guts that takes is unbelievable, and the justice system just doesn’t know what to do with it, because now, well, they had some solid shit on Falcone, but at the same time, there are costumed vigilantes running around. It is pretty fucking crazy. John wants to know more, but he's barely had time to look over the headline and the blurb before being called over to help out with some scheduling.

 

“John?” Rachel glances over from her desk, and pulls him out of his thoughts. “If you want to head home, you can. I'll be a while, yet.”

 

He shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes. “Nah, I'm good. Was thinking about some more coffee, if you'd like some?” Free coffee is a definite perk, cheap and burnt or not. He's been loading his up with sugar and cream, calories to keep him going. She got him lunch, with some insistence on her part, since he hadn't exactly expected to need to pack one for the day, but it wasn't something he could expect again, so it was good to know a source of free fuel.

 

“Coffee sounds good.” She's already distracted. She gets lost in her work. John has seen the smile she's given him disappear and be replaced with a clipped, cool kind of fierceness more than once, today, when she's come under pressure, not buckling for something she's thought was right. It's, well, it's something he hasn't seen in a long time, and if this sticks... He could see himself really liking working for her.

 

After coffee, and then an hour or so after that, she finally sighs and puts away a few things. “You did a good job today, thank you. Want a ride home?”

 

He'd kind of been hoping. John's been kind of curious about her, how she knows Bruce, how she has an apartment in the building. He knows not all of them can be as luxurious as the one he's in, but they still have to cost a fortune, more than what he thinks an assistant DA is going to be able to afford. He doesn't want to ask too many questions, though, because when you ask questions, you get asked them in return. Still... There's fewer papers this time, but he helps her carry them all the same, out and into the underground parking garage.

  
“So how long have you lived at—” he has to stop, realizing suddenly he has no idea what the apartment complex is called, “—your place,” he finally finishes, feeling like an idiot and studying the ground, the shine in his shoes as he sidesteps a puddle, not wanting to get Bruce's clothing dirty.

 

“Oh, years now. You're wondering how I can afford it?”

 

“I didn't—”

 

“I'm am an attorney, John. I'm supposed to know how to read people.” She turns, walking backwards a few steps and giving him an almost playful look. “It was, well, a gift... From an old friend. Have you met Alfred?”

 

“Yeah, he's, he's a nice guy.”

 

“He is. After Bruce disappeared, Alfred was given control of his assets... He said he wanted to make sure I was secure.” She smiles softly, and turns back around. “It was very generous. I think when Bruce left, he wanted to make sure that, well, that the people who knew him were ok.”

 

“You've known him a long time?”

  
“Since we were children. We used to play together.”

 

It's hard to picture Bruce playing. It's hard to picture him as a kid period, but there it was. He's glad he didn't lie to her about the string... Just everything else. He slides into the car beside her after they get the paperwork settled, and she pushes the key into the ignition, about to say something when the car sputters instead of the engine turning over.

 

“Crap.” She frowns, and hits the heel of her hand lightly over the wheel. “Come on...”

 

But there's only more sputtering. In the car’s defense, it's pretty beat up looking.

 

“I could, uhm, take a look at it,” he offers uncertainly.

 

“Do you... know anything about cars?” She turns in the seat to ask.

 

“No. It just, it just seemed like I should offer.” He snorts at himself, and it makes Rachel laugh, and drop her head back against the seat.

 

“What a day. I'm sorry, it looks like we're taking the train. I'll have to call and see about getting it towed to the shop.”

 

John winces in sympathy. He doesn't mind the walk, but he can only imagine what towing and repairs might cost. “Well, at least it's not raining?”

 

“Shut up.” She laughs, covering her face with a folder. “You'll make it rain next.”

 

“Alright, alright.” He chuckles, and they unload, making their way to the train as fast as they can before John's luck bites them both on the ass.

 

It doesn't rain. There's that. John settles onto one of the grimy seats, insisting he can hold the files there, since Rachel has her purse. The seats are mostly empty, which beats when they're cram packed. John would know, since he's been on the train more times than he can remember. Some of his earliest memories are of scooting up to the windows, and staring out in wonder as the city rushed by them. They don't talk much, both of them are tired and ready to call it a night.

 

John isn't sure who notices first, if it's her or him, but he knows their attention has both been drawn to the only other guy on the rails with them. He's been setting John's teeth on edge, making him shift in his seat. He's not looking at him, yet he is. John will catch him in the reflection off the glass before suddenly his eyes are locked on his phone, thumbing through it.

 

The thing that catches his attention, that bothers John, is that the light keeps going on, shining against the man's face each time, like he hasn't been looking at his phone, at all, like he's been watching them until one of them sees, and then he's turning his phone on to look busy. It's eerie, and when he looks over to Rachel, she doesn't say anything, but her lips are thin, pressed together tightly. They both are quick to jump up and head out of the train the second the doors open.

 

John slides the folders under his arm, wanting his hands free as he follows her down the rickety steps of the train landing. He can hear the footsteps behind them, they both can. Neither of them turn around, but John keeps himself tense. This guy isn't as big as the asshole from last night, he's pretty sure he can at least distract him while she gets away.

 

He keeps his eyes on her, sees her reaching into her purse for something. Figures, she seems like a smart enough woman to keep something on her, John's hoping for a concealed handgun, but considering she works for the justice system, he's guessing it's just pepper spray. He's distracted enough that he almost misses the sudden figure in front of them. Two. You don't just mug with two people, something isn't right here, and his stomach sinks even further at the idea.

 

He just sort of hopes Rachel doesn't get mad that he's about to lose all of her paperwork... He's pretty sure he made copies of most of it today, at the office. It's for a good cause, though, when he spins around and flings them at the man chasing them, distracting him enough so that he can land a punch. His bruised up knuckles are already in bad shape, and it hurts like hell, a flash of white hot pain running up his arm as his fist connects with jawbone.

 

“Get out of here!” He just needs to be a distraction. Except Rachel, he can't see her, but he can hear her firm shout to get back, can feel her straightening up beside him. She's not a fighter, but she's too kindhearted to just leave him here. Which is really bad news for her, because he's got the other guy on the ground, but it won't be for long, not when he feels the sudden, heavy landing of another man beside him, dropping down from god knows where.

 

“That's right, you better run!” He jerks around at that, watching as the man in front of them is, well, doing just that, hightailing it out of there in a way that he knows can't have anything to do with his shaky punch or her taser gun, which can only mean... He twists back around, and can hear the sharp gasp Rachel gives out as his eyes meet with the dark figure looming over them, armored, hooded, fuck, even with a cape. It's like something out of a movie, so her near shriek, it's more than a little warranted.

 

So is the sudden shot from her taser gun, not that it does much good. This has to be one of the guys from the papers. There's no way it's a coincidence, and John stares, watches as he brushes away the attack like it's nothing, talks to Rachel, tells her the men were sent to kill her, even gives her leverage to prosecute Falcone.

 

But John can't focus on any of that, not really. He can't stop staring, not even when the guy disappears, and Rachel touches his shoulder, saying his name uncertainly, because what John had seen in that man's eyes when they met for a moment had been surprise, familiarity... He hadn't said anything, hadn't even looked at John again, but John knew he had been looking at Bruce Wayne. Bruce fucking Wayne.

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

“Bats are nocturnal!” Bruce grumbles. Barsad snorts and noisily drops the tray Alfred was about to take in on the beside table, yanking open the curtains and letting the sun pour in.

 

“They also fly in groups,” he points out sharply. None of them were pleased by Bruce's sudden disappearance last night. Talia had woken up in the night alone. The fact that she slept through his leaving was an impressive show of Bruce's training, actually, but it had been the last thing on their minds. After Barsad had calmed himself, and Bane, over the fact that Talia had been in Bruce's bed, they had checked their makeshift armory in the cave. The suit had been missing along with him, so it had been rather easy to figure out what he was up to.

 

Bruce sits up and rubs his face, his eyes going over to the empty space beside him. “It was personal... I didn't want to drag you guys into it.”

 

Barsad's look is dry as he leans lightly back against the windowpane and feels the warmth against his skin. “Because this has stopped you so quickly, in the past.”

 

“That's exactly my point. I know... I know what you've given up for me, and I'm grateful.” Bruce says it quietly as he looks down at the hardwood flooring. It is... a fair share closer to humility than the man tends to get, and Barsad had not expected the personal acknowledgment of just what had been sacrificed by them for both him and Talia, to keep them together. He dips his head down slowly, just slightly. He is not exactly known for his humbleness, either.

 

“Be that as it may, our struggles are together. You cannot simply go off alone without discussing it. It will not work in such a way.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Good.” Barsad is happy to change the subject. “Alfred has made you your green swill.” Barsad's nose turns up at the glass on the tray. He has eaten many things over the years without complaint, but he will never willingly drink _that_. “But you will come to breakfast, smooth things over with Talia. She will never tell you, but she was worried, and is upset now.”

 

“Giving me relationship advice?” Bruce asks, and looks amused as he takes the glass and swallows down a mouthful of the green 'nutrition' drink.

 

“You clearly need it so badly that that even I will give it. What a desperate man you are,” Barsad says, unforgiving in his brutal honesty.

 

“Not sure that's your business,” Bruce remarks offhandedly, as he looks at him over the rim of the glass.

 

“When it interrupts _my_ relationship in the dead of night, and we must scramble for the bedsheets, then it does.” His lip curls with amusement when Bruce's body jerks and he barely does not choke on his swill. “Come to breakfast.”

 

Bane has already finished his own meal, but sits with them. Alfred has been kind enough to prepare things that are soft, filling, and yet still able to reach his brother's taste buds. It has made mealtime a more pleasant thing for Bane, even if he will never admit to such an indulgence. Now, his fingers reach out under the small breakfast table for Barsad's, without a word. It is sweet, and Barsad smiles quietly between a bite of eggs, hooking his pinky with them and squeezing gently. They are both being ridiculous, such children, but he had not been lying when he told Bruce that Talia had nearly unintentionally interrupted things the night before.

 

____________________

 

“ _You are amorous this evening.”_

 

_Barsad laughs and does not stop the little kisses he is delivering to the side of Bane's shoulder. “You have been looking at me. Do not think I have missed you. I see you, brother, how your eyes have followed my body all day.” His hand touches over Bane's thick bicep, rubbing into the muscle as his voice drops lower, whispered against Bane's skin. “It does things to me... When I feel your desire.”_

 

“ _It excites you,” Bane says knowingly, and Barsad hums quietly in affirmation. In the dark, it sounds nearly like a purr.  
_ _  
_ _“To know you wish to touch me as you have no other, to know how your hands feel on my body, yes, it excites me very much. I will have you on this bed, if you are so willing.”_

 

“ _Very willing.” Bane asserts it quickly, quickly enough that Barsad is at his side in a moment, and Bane can see the flash of his teeth, sees how he bites into his lip and grins. It is true. He has missed this, and it is a strange and wonderful thing to have realized through the day, as he has watched his brother._

 

_It makes him feel... Normal. It is strange, just how appealing 'normal' can be. It is not a word he had thought himself ever capable of feeling, or perhaps even of understanding._

 

“ _Oh good. If you are feeling so amorous, as well, perhaps you will let me try something new.”_

 

“ _Nothing too new,” Bane answers, but he knows he truly does not need to say it. Barsad is quick, impatient, short-tempered, and cruel… he is all of these things to those outside of their bed, but here, here, he is exactly what Bane needs, teasing, coaxing, lustful, patient, and seductive. On his most whimsical days, Bane can understand the fates, and he accepts that they knew what they were doing when they bound the string to their pinkies._

 

“ _Nothing too new,” Barsad repeats the words back to him, in a low whisper, as he strips off his pants for sleep. “But something very nice, still, I imagine.”_

 

_When they are both bare, when Barsad climbs onto him slowly, his bare skin catching bits of moonlight, his cock flushed red and eager as he straddles Bane's thighs... Bane is forced to agree._

 

_There is lubricant, and it coats Barsad's hands as he rubs it between his palms. Barsad was shameless in his acquisition of it, insisted that it was needed, and asked Bruce for it, himself. When Bruce did not know, he went to Alfred. Shameless._

 

_Bane is grateful._

 

“ _I will touch us together, brother.” Barsad explains it even as the warm and slicked heel of his hand presses Bane's cock to his belly, gliding up it slowly enough to make Bane's toes feel as though they might curl, and sparks run through his blood. “Move, if you wish... but do try not to knock me off of you in your zealousness.”_

 

“ _Cheeky.” Bane mumbles it as his hands bunch up the sheets under them. He considers pushing Barsad off of the bed for it, but it would interrupt, and he seems so proud of himself, so satisfied with his scheme, that he does not have the heart. Anyone else, anyone else on top of him, and he would not be able to stop his body from struggling, from perceiving it as a threat, the way he was pressed down to the bed._

 

_But Barsad, his weight, his own body knows it by heart, and instead his lips part, the breath from them a shaky exhale as Barsad wraps his hands around them both, presses their cocks together in a tight, slick grip._

 

“ _Brother—”_  
  
Barsad nods, his eyes lidded already in satisfaction. “I know, Bane.” It is whispered back, and his hands stroke them, slow caresses that send tingles through his body, make his belly clench up with pleasure. He is not holding the sheets for long, and Barsad grunts when his hands go to his thighs, gripping them tightly.

 

“ _It's alright, Bane, move.” Barsad encourages it, the slight rock of his hips into the slick channel Barsad's hands make. It is not much, not enough to jostle Barsad off of his body, but it feels good. It feels near primal to rut up into his hands, to feel the soft skin of Barsad's cock rubbing against his own. It is wonderful to hear Barsad pant with him. They have touched one another, but not like this, not so that their pleasure is simultaneous, is joined in such a way, and Bane wants to watch each moment of it. Each small twitch of pleasure that crosses Barsad's face, the way the muscles in his belly tighten when his own slender hips begin to rock._

 

_The bed soon begins to creak softly, and it only adds to their private pleasure. Barsad's hand begins to jerk them faster, as if he cannot get enough. His cock is leaking down, smearing over Bane's skin, warm, and even when Bane rolls his hips just so, it is no longer enough._

 

“ _Let me.” It is grunted out, and his hand is not wet like Barsad's, but it will do to wrap around Barsad's own hand and work it faster around their cocks. The noises that fall from his brother's lips, after, are surprised, a sweet choked off gasp as a tremor runs through him, and Bane feels his come pulsing out hot between their joined fingers._

 

“ _You, you, let me see you.” It sounds desperate, and demanding, even as pleasure is trembling through him. It is too sweet to resist, and Bane is lost by it in moments, his own orgasm met with a rough jerk of his hips, and Barsad's fingers playing at the tip of his cock._

 

“ _Good?” Barsad says it playfully. He knows the answer, as his slender finger runs down Bane's cock lovingly, a final twitch given as his hand withdraws, a mess of come and lubricant. He only laughs when Bane smacks his thigh, his breathing still not steady, but they clean quickly. Bane has found he prefers it that way, the lingering mess too close to his memories. Once it is clean, they can lie out and relax in the warm glow their joining always seems to bring._

 

“ _One day, I will take you inside of me, I know it, Bane.” Barsad breathes the words out, a soft sigh at the end of them, not disappointment, content. “I know you will be ready for it, one day, wish it, and I will watch your eyes as you press into me, the pleasure in them._

 

“ _You already know what my eyes look like when there is pleasure in them,” Bane answers him, and it gets a genuine, lazy smile, as Bane strokes his fingers down the bumps of his spine._

 

“ _I do. You look beautiful as such. Your eyes change, like I am looking into storm clouds, and I can taste the change in the air on my tongue.”_

 

“ _Will you feel the need to flatter me so prettily, if we manage to bring our other string home?” Bane asks, teasing, and it gets a bark of laughter._

 

“ _He does not seem like one for such poetry. I will have to spin my words for you both, to lure you into my bed. Then, I will see your eyes lit with pleasure, together.”_

 

_This renders Bane silent. He suddenly feels quite foolish, that he has not thought of the idea that bringing their string to them will mean another partner in such... intimacy. In his mind, he has thought of their third much like he has Bruce, a brother, someone to share life with, to be close to._

 

_To suddenly have the thought changed, clarified into something he should have realized, already... it is daunting._

 

_Barsad seems to notice his change in demeanor, and opens his mouth to question him, but they are interrupted from the quiet moment by a soft, urgent knock, and it leads to a scramble for their clothing._

 

\------

 

Alfred seems less than happy when Bruce finally joins them, noting the bruises and cuts on his arms, his torso. Relatively, they are nothing, as all have of them have received them and their like countless times, in training. Alfred is clearly not used to such things, though, and Bane can see the slight frown to his features as puts down a proper breakfast in front of him, and then inspects him.

 

“It looks as though you've set off to destroy your own body as much as you have any criminals you might have faced.”

 

“I can't exactly ask them to tone it down, Alfred,” Bruce says, still rubbing a hand over his eyes, as he takes a bite of toast.

 

“People might begin to wonder, to question things,” Alfred points out, and that catches their attention easily enough. It is not exactly an unreasonable point. “Staying up all night, strange bruises, a complete recluse, and his string still kept out of the public eye... These are not exactly the markers of a normal, wealthy, young socialite.”

 

“We are not exactly 'normal people', Alfred,” Talia says quietly, as if even the notion is off-putting. It makes Alfred give her a small, warm smile.

 

“Of course not, Miss Talia. In the best of ways, you are quite far from it, but if these marks are to be the first of many to come, it might be best to develop an alibi of sorts, to explain them.”

 

“What sort of alibi might you suggest?” Bane asks. It is not as if any of them know how to pass for normal, clearly.

 

“Well there is polo—”

 

“I'm not learning _polo_ , Alfred,” Bruce snorts out derisively.

 

“Then I suggest you think of something, Master Wayne, if you wish for this charade to continue. If not, people are going to begin to wonder what exactly Bruce Wayne does with his time and money.”

 

“Fine, fine.” Bruce looks near pained at the notion. For all that Bruce wishes to save Gotham, it is clear that 'fitting into it' has never crossed his mind. “And what does someone like me do, besides polo?”

 

Alfred is mildly amused as he reaches to refill Talia's teacup. “Well, drive sports cars, buy things that are not for sale, take their strings out to fancy dinners... who knows, Master Wayne? You start pretending to have fun, you might even have a little by accident.”

 

“I do not see why this must involve me,” Talia says quickly, her blue eyes wider as she protests the notion.

 

“Don't make me do this alone.” Bruce says it quickly, and Bane nearly laughs. He has never seen his brother look so desperate, not even when facing down a blazing temple and a half-mad leader. Barsad is not kind enough to hide his snicker.

 

“Do not laugh. If I am going, you are going.” Talia says it sharply, and Bane finds himself strangely grateful for his mask when he sees the sudden panic in Barsad's eyes.

 

“You cannot be serious. Surely, this is a private moment between two strings, to go out together—”

 

“Paparazzi will make sure it's not. It's best if we don't even try for private,” Bruce points out, and the sharp glare that Barsad gives him is near deadly. “I could have a small dinner party, something with a few of the members of the board. It would make sense, as a way to introduce Talia to others, and for her protective older brother to accompany her.”

 

“I hate you.” Barsad's shoulders slump slightly as his elbows catch on the table.

 

“Family endures together, Barsad,” Bane points out, and it gets a scowl.

 

“You say this only because you cannot possibly be expected to attend.”

 

“Perhaps,” Bane concedes, and the corner of Barsad's lip twitches.

 

“Sarcasm does not suit you, leave it with me. Fine. We will attend this dinner party. I will play the older brother to the letter, though,” Barsad warns, “and if I see you getting too close to my darling little sister, I will stab you with the dinnerware.”

 

____________________

 

“You really, _really_ , don't have to do this, Rachel, I mean it.” John protests it again, and probably will protest it all night, until she finally sees what a terrible idea this is.

 

“John, you saved my _life,_ ” she calls out from the living area as John fumbles with his tie. “Taking you out to dinner is the least I can do, and you'll be saving me from it being just me and my bosses.”

 

“I _so_ didn't save your life. I barely even got a hit in on that one guy. I think you're just using this as an excuse so you're not stuck at a table full of guys over sixty. Batman saved your life. Invite the batman.”

 

Invite Bruce Wayne, he wants to say. He doesn't know how Rachel didn't recognize him. Maybe he's just more intuitive than most, or maybe just the last thing in the world Rachel was expecting was her childhood friend in a crazy bat costume, so her brain was kind enough to block the idea out.

 

He hears the light laughter through the door. “Come on. You'll have fun.”

 

“I won't.” He won't fit into what's going on, at all. From what Rachel's said, he wouldn't even get hired to take out the garbage at this place. A drink probably costs more than what he could scrape together in a month, and he'll make a huge embarrassing mess for her, somehow. People don't take their assistants out to fancy dinner parties. She was just nuts.

 

“Come on, you can't hide in there all day. I'm sure you're hungry.”

 

His stomach rumbles. Damn her. They'd been in the office all day, and John had lived off of coffee, sugar and cream. He'd managed to get back to the shelter before going into work. His bunk had been given up, he couldn't blame them for that, he'd known the score the second he didn't come home that first night. At least his backpack had still been there, stowed away by one of the volunteers. He'd breathed a sigh of relief when the little cut away pocket he'd made in it still had the few extra bills he managed to stow away tucked inside. It was what he'd be using to eat until his first paycheck, and he was grateful for it being there, but he'll have to stretch it. So it has been a no-food sort of day. John just really hoped it wasn't one of those restaurants with really tiny, fancy portions. He might die.

 

“I heard that. Come on, kid, they're footing the bill, and we'll both buy the biggest steaks on the menu.”

 

“You're killing me here,” John grumbles as he finally opens the door and rests his head against the door frame.

 

Rachel's smile greets him, and he snorts a little in spite of the bad feeling in his gut about this. John really can't help but like his new boss, even if he only met her two days ago.

 

“You'll be _fine_ , John,” Rachel promises, and it's enough to get him not to drag his feet when they leave the apartment complex together.

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

“You look beautiful.” Barsad cannot help but say it as he stretches his hand out across the seats to squeeze Talia's hand. It is no lie. She is stunning in the dress that has been ordered for her, something else they are indebted to Alfred for. It is a deep blue, clinging to her curves, clearly well-made and sophisticated, but unpretentious enough to make her comfortable with something so new to her. The scarf around her neck only accents it, gives her an air of mystery, fitting for the curiosity she is sure to cause in the crowds.

 

The suit he is in... that he is less pleased about. He has not worn one since he was a boy, forced into the itchy confines for a family member's wedding. This one is decidedly more comfortable, tailored to him, Armani, apparently. Barsad is the first to admit he knows nothing about it, but Bane seemed to enjoy the sight of him in it, and he can admit to himself that those wide palms touching over the smooth fabric of his shirt, nearly pawing at him, mussing him before he apologized quietly and straightened him out with the suggestion that perhaps the suit could be kept on, later, well, that was nearly worth the tie.

 

Nearly, anyway. He adjusts it again, feeling quite out of place and slightly off-put that no one has listened to his suggestion that he be the one to drive. He is quite capable, after all, but no, Bruce had insisted. Talia squeezes his fingers in return before placing her hands back onto her lap. She will never say it, but she is nervous. None like the idea of parading her around, but they all accept that it is needed.

Still, he is somewhat proud that Bruce had come to him earlier that evening to speak.

 

“ _I want... I want her to have a good time. As much of one as she can have under the circumstances,” Bruce says as he dresses with him, giving Barsad a pair of his shoes to wear._

 

“ _Are you sure you do not simply wish to be sure she makes a good first impression?” Barsad asks, testing, cautious. It is shot down when Bruce chuckles dryly._

 

“ _I'd rather she didn't. If she looks too good, then I'm going to have a terrible time trying to keep up.” He shakes his head, then looks at Barsad seriously. “She doesn't have a lot of fun... I just want this to be something nice, if it can be.”_

 

“ _You wish it to be like a real date,” Barsad realizes, and he fights the twitch of his lips, not wishing to give Bruce the satisfaction. “Very well.”_

 

“You look very handsome as well, brother,” she answers, giving him a small smile before she looks out the window. “Your shirt is still somewhat rumpled from Bane having discovered you in it.”

 

Barsad clears his throat, and smooths over a wrinkle in his shirt. He shoots a glare forward when he hears the amused noise in the front, from Bruce. “I am certain it is none of your business, and your eyes belong on the road.”

 

The hotel they arrive at is as phenomenally daunting as Barsad expects it to be. He supposes, in its own way, it is beautiful, with hundreds of lighted windows and a throng of a crowd gathered at the base. They have expected that, though—an anonymous tip to the right media sources, and the paparazzi was poised and ready to strike. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and they had decided it would be better to choose their battleground. Better to let them speculate all they wished on the new happy couple's relationship, rather than the strange incidents in the newspapers of lat. Bats and mysterious vigilantes stood no match when it came to celebrity gossip.

 

“Put on your best smile,” Bruce says as he focuses on putting the car into park.  
  
“I know how to fake a smile, Bruce.” Talia's voice is clipped as her nails dig slightly into the small handbag on her lap.

 

“Actually, I was more worried about Barsad.”

 

“Shut up.” Barsad shoots a glare filled with malice towards Bruce, in the rear view mirror. When the doors are open, he glowers at the flashes of cameras and the noisy questions shouted towards them. It is good he is slated to play the overprotective older brother. It is a role he currently needs no acting to play. His arm hooks around Talia, and he wishes for nothing more than to usher her back into the car, away from prying eyes.

 

But as for Talia, Barsad has known she speaks well, that she can be charming. Now, he feels her shrink against him for only a moment, an imperceptible squeeze of his hand to balance herself, and then Barsad can feel how her body straightens against him, the warm smile and presence she exudes as the crowd is held back from flocking around her.   
  
It is an impressive act. The smile is not as lovely as her real one, though, the one that he sees in the smallest of flashes, too fast to be caught by even a camera as Bruce's hand reaches out for her, his eyebrows arched up questioningly. She laughs, delicate fingers reaching for him. It is only half an act when Bruce locks their arms together, and Barsad finds himself following the couple into the restaurant.

 

Barsad has no interest in their 'dining company'. Neither does Talia, and Bruce has said nothing on the matter, but Barsad is certain he feels the same. It is a small group, most of them composed of those born into wealth and privilege, among them the current CEO of the company who is quite unpleasant, indeed. They are all well aware of his plans and attempts to take the company public, and it has been taken care of, but it still leaves a bad taste in Barsad's mouth that he is sure will go badly with the wine.

 

Still, it is a strategic move. Not only is it in their best interests to keep a close eye on him, to study him and be certain he does not cause any more trouble, he is a well off man, connected. Perhaps too connect, perhaps not, but the saying advising to keep one’s friends close and one's enemies closer was certainly created for solid reasons.

 

Conversation is kept light, friendly superficial greetings, congratulations to the happy couple, and questions on when they will be wed. If the question surprises Talia, it is only noticeable to Barsad by the barely perceptible widening of her eyes. Bruce deflects for them both, casts love sick eyes onto Talia that, were they real, would most likely make her reach for her dagger. Instead, she smiles primly and leans closer for a kiss to her cheek.

 

Barsad desperately needs a cigarette.

 

It will have to wait, though. There is food to order. Eating in a restaurant is certainly not something he has done in some time, and it is an entirely new experience for Talia. They had explained the basics of ordering, and Alfred had gone over the use of fine silverware with her, the evening before, all the while reassuring her that much of it was outdated, and that she was far too lovely to be criticized for any sort of faux pas related to it. Barsad is not nearly so lucky, and he stares at the entire vast expanse of silverware laid before him. Baffling.

 

Talia does not like wine, Barsad can see it in the ever-so-slight pucker to her lips with each sip, but she works on her glass slowly, orders her food without a hitch. It seems a silly thing to be proud of, but somehow he still is. He wishes that Bane were here, not only to be able to experience this strangeness and endure it with him, but to see how well Talia can adapt to whatever situation she is placed in.

 

The dinner conversation quite quickly becomes about Talia. It is as politely invasive, as they have expected and planned for, and the women in the group smiling falsely at Talia, near fawning over her, quickly trying to gain as much information on her as possible, the men wishing to know just as dearly, but not willing to admit it, relying on their partners to obtain it for them. Talia demurely details events from her childhood, the small home she grew up in, the brother who raised her after her mother died, finding Bruce while she was away taking classes during the cold winter months. All of it is truth, and all of it is a lie. It makes the story easier to remember.

 

“What were you studying?” someone asks.  
  
“To take over my families business,” Talia replies with a small smile, nothing more given.

 

Once it is clear, however, that they will be getting no further 'juicy details', the conversation changes quickly. None of them are surprised that it turns to the topic of the strange vigilantes.

 

“They're doing what the police have never done,” one of the women points out. “Who knows what they might do next. Who knows how many there even are.”

 

“You can't take the law into your own hands,” Earle argues. “Help me out here, Bruce, Talia.”  
  
Talia laughs. “It is a curious thing, isn't it? Have you heard the reports of the one? How he dresses?” Her hand rests gently on Bruce's and she squeezes it, forcing a laugh from him. “So strange, isn't it?”  
  
“Well, a guy who dresses up like a bat clearly has issues...”  
  
“Clearly,” Talia answers, tilting her head towards him.

 

Barsad thinks he is going to be ill. Surely he is not nearly so sickening with Bane. Surely.

 

“I am going to smoke.” They are the first words he has spoken at the table beyond ordering, and eyes are on him. He reaches to pat Talia's hand before leaving. He can hear questions being asked to Talia about her brother as soon as they assume he is out of earshot. His feet lead him to a balcony on the second floor, secluded and yet open to the city. He lights a cigarette and takes a slow drag, feeling his skin itch from the show they are putting on, not at all in a hurry to return to the table and play along.

 

____________________

 

“I still think this is a really bad idea.” John pulls at the tie a little as they drive. Rachel's car is fixed up, just one little suspicious wire out of place to make it not start up, before, and make them take the train. Funny, that.

 

“Relax, John,” Rachel says, and it has to be the fifth time, at least, but it's not helping too much.

 

“I just don't want to make you look bad, that's all.” That certainly isn't 'all', but it is a lot of it. He's not good dinner company material. Especially not when he sees the hotel they're pulling up to, Jesus Christ. He can't help but think the bill for their meal tonight will probably be more money than he's made his entire life. Good thing Rachel's bosses are footing the bill.

 

“What's with the reporters?” he asks, ducking behind a passerby when a flash goes off. He hates having his picture taken, if he can help it, especially for no reason, by some goddamn stranger.

 

“They're vultures,” Rachel calls back to him, purposefully not looking at them. “A lot of people tend to come here, and animals know to hover around feeding grounds.”

 

It makes John laugh. He's heard her be vicious, but it's always been about criminals. Hearing her tone take on the same disdain towards the paparazzi is kind of funny. Inside, it's better and also worse. No cameras, but there's so much finery that John feels like a smear of dirt on the floor, like he's going to fuck things up just by breathing wrong.

 

Or by bumping right into Rachel when she stops in front of him. He jolts, barely biting back a curse, and offering a quick apology.

 

“Bruce?” Rachel says the name as a soft question, not seeming to hear John at all, and when he looks around her he sees the man himself, sitting at a table with a group of others, including the woman he had seen what was only a few nights ago yet somehow felt like a lifetime.

 

Living in his penthouse or not, John had kind of never expected to see Bruce Wayne again. He's sort of as speechless as Rachel, and feels pretty dumb. Of course they'd see him. Bruce was Rachel's friend, or as much as Bruce Wayne had friends. It was bound to happen in one way or another. He was just glad they weren't with him.

 

“Rachel?” The word can't be heard, but Rachel has caught his eye across the dining area, and he's standing up quickly, touching the shoulder of the woman with him before he stands and walks towards them.  
  
“I didn't know you'd be here.” Rachel is smiling, and it's a little sad, like she's looking at a friend that isn't really there, a ghost.

 

John has never felt more awkward just standing there. He'd go look for their table... but he only has a passing notion of what Rachel's bosses really look like. He's found that, mostly, old white guys all look the same, and he isn't about to risk sitting at the wrong table... besides, he really can't fathom going and sitting there without her.

 

“I'm just gonna... I'm going to get some air,” John finally mumbles. He glances back towards the doors they came through, but thinks of the flashing cameras, and decides against it, wandering past the dining area and into deeper into the hotel, instead. He's not even sure Rachel heard him, but he'll be back in a little bit. He just kind of hopes they don't talk about him, at all. He's not even sure Bruce saw him, but it's not so hard to figure out how he met Rachel. Not hard to figure out that he did take his key and sleep in his penthouse, that he's probably still there, and John doesn't want him knowing that, but it's the guy's place, after all, what is he going to do?

 

John sees a balcony door in the bustle of the halls, and the thought sounds good, to at least be out in the open air, to get his thoughts together, and to get away from all of the fake people milling around. He doesn't think twice about wrapping his fingers around the way-too-fancy door knob and letting himself out into the night air.  
  
Maybe he should have, because he's greeted by a cloud of cigarette smoke, and a figure leaning over the railing, staring out into the city landscape. He almost wishes for a cigarette as he watches the smoke waft up from the lit end dangling from the man's slender fingers. It's been a long time, as he hasn't smoked since he was kicked out of the boys’ home. They were a lot easier and cheaper to get a hold of back then. He just can't afford the habit, now.

 

“Go. This spot is taken.” It's a voice that makes him swear out loud, not having expected it, at all. He hadn't even been paying attention to the strings attached to the man's fingers as he held his cigarette, how they wafted down, and how one joined with his own. Why would he have? Fuck it, why _wouldn't_ he have? How has he not learned by now how rotten his luck is? Barsad must be here with Wayne. They're friends, or whatever they would want to call each other, and it makes sense that they'd go out to dinner.

 

The expletive that leaves his lips clearly gives him away, because Barsad straightens from the railing quickly, spinning around in the shined dress shoes he is wearing.

 

“John—”

 

“Don't.” John shakes his head, backing up towards the door. It spooks him just to hear his name on those lips. He's not surprised Alfred told them, but he never thought he'd have to hear one of them saying his name, not with that tone of wistfulness to it that makes a sudden tightness knot up his stomach.

 

“Please.” Barsad's smart enough not to reach out his hand for him, but John catches how his fingers twitch. More than that, he feels how his own clench quickly in response, the fucking traitors. “Just, please, a few minutes. I only ask for a few minutes to speak with you. I know you have said you do not wish to see us, but please try to imagine it for us, for us to be attached to you by fate itself, to have thought about you so often, to have finally found you, and to have you refuse to speak to us. It feels as though I am drowning, it is so confusing.”

 

John's palms scrub over his face. This suit isn't helping. He feels so uncomfortable and out of place, already. At least they're outside, he feels like he can breathe, at least. Barsad, he can understand it, his desire. That's what makes it so hard to shut him up, to just walk the hell away. Who wouldn't want an explanation? Maybe he deserves one, but that doesn't mean that John wants to give it. It doesn't mean that he wants to be there talking to him for another minute.

 

“I have—” John's voice practically cracks, something he hasn't done since fucking puberty. “I have to get back to dinner. People are waiting.”

 

“Please, John.” Barsad repeats it, his voice as smooth and soft as the smoke that curls around him. “Just a few minutes, I am certain they can wait a few minutes. It is all I ask for.”

 

“If—You have to stop pulling them,” John finally says quickly. He can hear the own desperation in his tone. “God, you just have to stop fucking pulling them, ok? I can't take it. It's driving me nuts.”

 

Barsad crushes out his cigarette on the side of the balcony rail. His lips are pressed together thinly before he nods sharply. “I cannot speak for him. You cannot expect me to make deals for him, we are our own people... but I give you my word, if you speak to me, I will no longer pull mine if you do not wish it.”

 

It'll have to do. Ignoring one pull is a whole lot easier than ignoring two. Rachel will just have to understand if he's a few minutes late. He can tell her he wanted to give her space with Bruce, and then got lost. It's partly true. He had left to give her space, and right now he feels pretty fucking lost.

 

“Ok, ok.” His hands clench tight enough that he can feel his fingernails threatening to break through his skin. “Give me a cigarette... When I'm done smoking it, we're done.”

 

The first drag threatens to send him into a coughing fit as it fills his lungs. It's been a while. Barsad pulls his lighter back, tucking it into his pocket. He's watching him too closely, like he's trying to make a picture in his mind, in case this is the last time he sees John. It IS the last time he'll see John. It has to be. John can't keep doing this. He just can't.

 

John pulls the filter from between his lips and breathes out slowly. “What do you want to know?”

 

“Everything. I want to know everything about you, John.” Barsad gives him a small smile as he says it. “But I do not think we have time for that... So please, tell me your reasoning. Is there someone else? Are you a cut string?”

 

John almost snorts. He might, but he doesn't want to risk a coughing fit again. Cut strings were people who didn't believe in them or fate, who wanted to fall in love outside of them. They were rare, and sometimes it worked, more often it didn't. John wasn't like that, though. “No.” He shakes his head. “I don't have someone else. I don't want _anyone,_ and I never will. _”_

 

“I do not mean to sound arrogant, but you are young, John. That is quite a decision to make, at your age.”

 

“Yeah, well I've made it, and I made it a long fucking time ago. I don't want it. Nothing good comes from them.” John bites his cheek as he says it. He can see his mother suddenly, a memory that hasn't been pulled up in a good long time. She's smiling at him, touching his cheek, telling him he's the best thing to ever happen to her. It nearly makes him snap the cigarette between his fingers in half. “Nothing good comes from them,” he repeats harshly, his voice wavering.

 

“How can you say that?” Barsad sounds almost as sad as he does puzzled. “You have not even tried your own out. You do not know what it may bring you.”  
  
“I don't have to. I saw what it brought them.”

 

“Who, John, your parents?”   
  
“That easy to guess?” John laughs dryly and takes another drag. This one is smoother, coats his lungs, and lets him feel the nicotine rush into his bloodstream. “Yeah, them.”

 

“Tell me about them?”

  
“No. The deal is you can talk with me about me, not about them.”

 

“They are a part of you, are they not?” Barsad pushes lightly. “Does that not mean that asking about them is asking about you?”

 

“No. They aren't a part of me. Not since I was a kid.”

 

Barsad tilts his head slowly, seeming to be thinking over what little he's gleaned about John since they first met. It's not much, but suddenly he closes his eyes, gives a slow nod as he smokes. “I am sorry, for your loss, John.”  
  
John bites into his bottom lip, feeling his chest ache. Has anyone ever said that to him, before? He tries to think about it. He'd never gotten a funeral, not for either of them, no one who'd taken him in had ever said it, it just wasn't talked about. Barsad is saying it now, though, and it doesn't feel like some platitude, it feels sincere, like he feels it with John. It makes him swipe bitterly at his eyes. “Don't be. You don't know me, and you didn't know them.”

 

“I want to know you, John, we both do. I am sorry that the world has been so cruel to you. I wish that we had been there for you, that we had been together, then, to comfort you.”

 

“Shut up.” John snaps at that. “I wouldn't have wanted you there then, either. Don't you get it? I saw how it was. I saw how lost he was without her. I—and then they were gone. They were both just fucking gone. You can't get close to people. It only hurts. They only leave.”

 

“ _John.”_

 

“S-stop. I won't take your damn pity.” He rubs at his eyes, and he won't look at him. He won't. Because he knows it's not pity. It's true sympathy, like Barsad is quietly grieving with him. He nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden touch of gentle hands to his shoulder. He can't do this. Why had he agreed to this? He can feel his face twitching, and he can't fucking cry. He can't. Not in front of one of them.

 

“I know it hurts, John. It must hurt you so very deeply, but you cannot let it break you. You cannot let it make you so scared of being hurt again that you are missing out on your life. If you do, then you are letting it take everything from you.”

 

“No. It's not safe. _This_ is safe. Being alone is safe. No one can leave, then.” John's almost chokes on the words, feeling the pressure rise in his head. It hurts. He hurts, and when he raises his hands up to move Barsad's hands off of him, because he needs to be able to breathe, and he can't while he's touching him, Barsad's hands go to his wrists, holding them, not grabbing, not too tight. It's so he can trail his fingers up them, over his palms. John freezes, another choked noise leaving him when Barsad gently laces their fingers together, and he can see their strings finally touching, the gossamer strands all wound up with one another, at home.

 

“Give us a chance, John. It is all I ask. It is all we ask.” Barsad whispers it, his eyes on their hands, the connection that John can feel buzzing through his skin like an electric current. “If you let us, we would never let you be alone again, John.”

 

A shudder runs through him. “You can't, you can't _know_ that. Everyone dies. Everyone dies, eventually.”

 

“Yes, and we will one day, too, but when we are old, when we have lived a lifetime of happiness together. Death is always hard, but the memories, all of the love we have shared together through the years, those thoughts will always be in our hearts.”

 

John pulls at his hands. His face is scrunched, and self-loathing fills him when he can finally feel the first tear leak out past his defenses. He swipes at it viciously, only feeling worse when Barsad reaches to wipe it away with the pad of his thumb.

 

“You are our string, John. I felt you when I was just a boy. I felt those little twists to my fingers, and I imagined what it would be like to finally meet you, to be friends, to play together.”

 

“I thought about you, too,” John admits in a harsh whisper. He had, he had barely known what they meant, he had been so young, but the strings had been friends. Friends when he didn't have many growing up, someone who would always love him, but he'd forgotten all of that after the accident, after his dad…  
  
“The hardest time of my life was when you both stopped calling out to me, when I thought that I might never be privileged enough to see either of your beautiful faces.”

 

John forces out a laugh at that, a tear rolling down his cheek at the action. “Are you kidding me? Look at me, I'm a fucking mess.”

 

“You are a beautiful mess.” Barsad smiles slightly, thumb still to his cheek. “And we would like so much to know you.”

 

“You don't know what you're asking.”  
  
“I do, because I asked it of him. I know how hard it was for him, but know this, John. Even if I never pull on my string again, never see your face, you will be in my thoughts each day, for the rest of my life. Can you honestly not say the same?”

 

"I don't know what you want from me," John says, exhaustion soaking his tone, wearing him down to his bones.

 

"Just a chance. That's all."

 

"What, to go home with you, and live happily ever after?"

 

Barsad barks out a sharp laugh, and pulls the cigarette from John's fingers. He's too surprised to protest the slow drag Barsad pulls from it when he tucks it between his lips. "Nothing so fairytale-esque as that, John. Let us KNOW you. Meet you, spend time with you."

 

"You sound like you want to court me." John blurts it out, and feels a tinge to his ears at the throaty chuckle that leaves Barsad.

 

"Is there something so wrong with that?"

 

"We're not kids. That stuff is for kids who find their strings young," John feels the need to point out, and Barsad shakes his head.

 

"No. It is for any string who might want to get to know one another, first. There is no sense in rushing, in pushing too fast or hard. Believe me. It is something I understand well, and something Bane will understand, too. In fact... I am certain he will prefer it this way." Barsad smiles, something fond that makes his face seem softer in the moonlight. "He can be shy."

 

John finds that hard to imagine. But, what Barsad is saying... He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. It...

 

"I don't know if I can do this. I don't know if I can be what you want," John whispers, because for the first time he's thinking about it. He's thinking about what it might be like to not be alone, all of the time. He should never have agreed to stay and talk, he should have run and never looked back the second he saw Bane in the alley. He's drawn in, now. He's thinking of the possibilities, and he's thinking of how every single one of them could go wrong.

 

Barsad is right, though. He'd think about them, too. He knows their faces, and he'd think about them every single day. He'd never get his mind off of them, and he knows that because that's exactly how it's been since the alley, and something, something has to fucking give.

 

He gives the tiniest nod to his head. The motion makes his chest tighten with anxiety even while he feels like his shoulders are lighter. The smile Barsad gives him shows in his blue eyes, and John wonders if one day he might look like that when he smiles.

 


	22. Chapter 22

Barsad could kiss him, truly he could, but he feels as though that would spook John right out of his skin, at this point. Slow steps, gentle steps. He has danced this dance before, with Bane, and he will gladly do it again. John cannot understand just how right fate has been with them, but he will. He will learn their stories one day, not today, but one day soon. He wonders what John will think of their vigilante escapades, but he thinks of how they met and cannot help but smile more, thinking that he will not mind so much, that perhaps he needs to be trained...

 

Those are thoughts to be brushed aside, for now. The work will wait. Now, he focuses all of his attention on John. His fingers touch gently at the smooth skin of his jaw, just a touch to memorize his face. A face he is determined to see again, but he still wants clear in his memories at all times. The touch is met with a twitch of John's cheek, the slightest of leans, but it is a lean into his fingers, not away, a victory, and when Barsad lets his hand drop, he can feel the pads of his fingertips tingle, still, from the contact.

 

“How can I contact you?” Barsad asks seriously. He is not so wound up in this to not think of the logistics, as well. The question surprises John though and he blinks slowly.  
  
“Maybe... I should just contact you,” John suggests. Barsad is not exactly surprised by it, but it is something he cannot let go.

 

“I think we both know it would be too easy for you to convince yourself to never call, John,” Barsad says, not unkindly, simply honest. “You do not have to tell us where you are staying, but will you please give me a way to reach you?”

 

“I don't have a cell phone,” he admits. “If I give you the number, it's the apartment's number, so you'll know where I'm at pretty quick... but you can have it,” he says finally, reluctantly. It is a big step for him, Barsad can recognize that, and be grateful. “It's not even my place, anyway. Just ask Bruce for it.”

 

“Bruce?” Barsad's brow arches up in surprise. “What do you mean?”

 

“It's... It's his place in the city. An apartment. He gave me the key, told me to stay as long as I needed.”  
  
The admission says many things, perhaps the most heartbreaking of them is that it means John had no place to stay, before. Had he been on the streets? How is he here, now, then, dressed in a fancy suit and in this hotel? So many questions. Perhaps half of them will be going to Bruce. He is sorely tempted to be angry... but he controls himself. Bruce will have had his reasons to not tell them, to keep their string hidden right under their noses. Once he hears how stupid those reasons are, then he will allow himself anger, perhaps a punch or two.

 

“I will ask him,” Barsad says with a quick nod. “And one of us will call you very soon. Tonight, perhaps.” He sees the twitch on John's features. “It will be to talk, to discuss what you are comfortable with, for now... and because Bane should be allowed to hear your voice, today, too, if I was already blessed with such luck.”

 

“Yeah, luck,” John says dryly, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Fuck, this is such a bad idea,” he mumbles, flicking off the ash that has built up on his cigarette, smoking it down to the filter, and crushing it out against the railing.

 

“It isn't, I promise, John. You will learn to trust us,” Barsad promises, for both John and himself, that he will do all he can to assure that, for all of them. “I see you are done smoking. Our agreement has ended.”   
  
John blinks, clearly having forgotten, but he nods then, turning towards the door. “I really have to get back.”  
  
“As do I. Though I am quite certain I am not missed amongst the finery.”  
  
John laughs sharply. “It can't be any worse than me. Believe me.”

 

Barsad wishes they were sitting together so that they could see just which of them would be the least presentable. Who would make the worst faux pas. It would only entertain his sister and Bruce both. As it is, he touches the back of his shoulder, whispering that he will talk to him soon, before he goes back to his table. He has not been missed by their company, though it is clear that Talia and Bruce both wonder what he has been up to for so long, why his eyes keep looking out into the crowd of tables, and why he keeps glancing down at his string, watching it as it trails across the restaurant and connects to John's, so close and so far.

 

Dinner is done and over with, though not nearly as fast as Barsad would like. Nothing so terrible occurs in his etiquette that he gets more than one stare. Back in the car, Bruce is quiet, brooding, more so than he has been of late, and Talia senses it, senses that Barsad is nearly 'giddy'. She attacks them both until they gives the details of their chance encounters. Barsad tells his more readily, his eyes like daggers at Bruce when he tells Talia that John has been put up by Bruce, under his own roof.

 

“That is a _good_ thing,” Talia says, sensible. Barsad is annoyed by it even as he recognizes he has no right to be. “He has a place to stay, somewhere close.”

 

“I didn't know if he'd actually be there or not,” Bruce points out as he drives, not even having the decency to be guilty for his actions. “He could have left. I just wanted to make sure he had a place to go... He was at a shelter.”  
  
Barsad crosses his arms. Angry at Gotham and himself, more than Bruce, when he hears that. To think of their string in a homeless shelter sets his teeth on edge. He barely remembers to listen to Bruce's own encounter.

 

“She thinks I actually _am_ one of these people...” Bruce nearly grimaces at the thought.

 

“That is _good_ , Bruce,” Talia points out. “If she knew more, suspected, she could be put in danger.”

 

It is... a good reminder. Perhaps it would not be such a good thing for John to know of their activities... but it is hard to imagine keeping anything a secret from him, when he is their string. He will discuss it with Bane, ask his thoughts on it. Bane. Barsad smiles, thinking of his face when he tells him the news.

 

____________________

 

A small smile creeps across Bane's lips when Barsad tells him of his evening. It is tentative, but Barsad can clearly see it still, kisses the edge of his brow as he eats his own meal. Nothing of the finery Barsad has tasted that night, but he still steals sips of the broth from his bowl as if Bane's spoon turns it to a feast fit for the finest of Gotham. Greedy. Bane pulls his spoon out of his mouth when it clicks between his teeth.

 

“You think that he will be with us?” The news is surprising, to say the least, but he is certain that if anyone could speak to their John, to know the right things to say to coax him to acceptance, then it is surely Barsad.

 

“I think he will at least now give us a chance,” Barsad answers as he slides his finger along the rim of Bane's soup bowl, causing him to protectively slide it away, earning a soft, playful laugh. “It is good news.”

 

“It is very good news,” Bane agrees. It is certainly not what they had expected, to find their string here, of all places, and it certainly complicates their plans in Gotham... But to know that John exists, to know his voice and face, to have an even greater reason to fight to defend Gotham in the coming days, these are all good things, and Bane is grateful for them.

 

“You should see him next,” Barsad insists, surprising Bane enough that his fingers loosen on his spoon. Barsad slips it into his own hand, taking a bite of carrot.

 

“Surely not. You should see him, again, next. You have built a rapport with him... Then perhaps later, we will go together.”

 

“I will not let you hide in Wayne Manor forever,” Barsad scolds him, and it makes Bane's tattered lips press together thinly. “It is _your_ turn, and it is good for you to go alone, it will overwhelm him less.”

 

“And me, more. He cannot come here?”

 

“I feel as though it would be good for you both, if you go to him, see him in a place he will perhaps feel more comfortable in. I spoke with Bruce, wheedled as much information as I could about this penthouse John is staying at. It is nice, quiet, and there is a private elevator. You can simply take a bike, and wear your helmet up to the apartment.”

 

“I will not... What would I do, then?” Bane asks, perplexed, feeling completely out of his element even to entertain this notion.

 

“Bane... I cannot give you a step-by-step list of what to do on this date.”

 

A date. Bane does not even know what that word means, but Barsad is smiling. He clearly thinks he is being 'cute'. It always rankles him when Barsad thinks that he can be cute. Bane is as far from the word as anyone can be, and yet, from time to time, he will catch Barsad with a smile, a soft exhale of breath through his nose as he watches him, evidence that he finds whatever Bane has just done 'precious' when it is _nothing_ of the sort.

 

He wonders vaguely if Talia must go through such trials with Bruce.

 

“At least tell me some things to speak about. I assume we will be speaking.”  
  
“Yes, of course, Bane. You do know how to meet new people. You were fine with Bruce, with Alfred.”

 

“Bruce I met as a student... It is different... And Alfred, as well.” His thumb rubs in a slow, repeated circle along the edge of his spoon. “I do not wish... You have worked hard to secure this. What if I only frighten him away, make us lose this opportunity?”

 

“Frighten?” Barsad laughs gently, and his warm lips kiss over his cheek. “Brother... While terrifying to our enemies, you are hardly frightening when we are alone, able to be ourselves.” He continues to chuckle when Bane's brow furrows at such an accusation. “I am sorry. You are truly a terror to behold.”

 

“You are teasing me,” Bane accuses in a low mumble before he takes another bite of broth.

 

“Never, my string.”

 

“And now you are lying.” He withholds a bite of broth from Barsad's open mouth, a low chuckle leaving him at the sudden, playful scowl he is given for such an unthoughtful action. “...You truly think I can do this.”

 

Barsad takes his hand and forces him to press the spoon into his mouth before nodding. “I know that you can. I will give you his number. You will arrange to see him tomorrow night?”

 

“It cannot be tomorrow.” Tomorrow is _far_ too soon for him to prepare for such an important event. Barsad knows this. “Bruce and I must go to Sergeant Gordon tomorrow, to speak with him about the shipments.”

 

“You think that he knows something?” Barsad sits up more at that, already shifting from his playful mood to the seriousness of work in one fluid motion. “About the two shipments?” It was unexpected information that had been gleaned from Bruce and Talia's excursion, that Falcone has been splitting his drug shipments up, and it reeks of suspicion. All of them are eager to discover where the secondary shipments are being sent, if this is Ra's Al Ghul's connection to the city. It is highly plausible, what better way to smuggle the fear toxins in, than as a drug? But they cannot move unless they are certain, and a sample is needed.

 

“It is possible he may be able to give us information,” Bane answers carefully. He is still uncertain about trusting the man, but Bruce seems to think it wise.

 

“But will he?”

 

“That will remain to be seen. The fact of the matter is, though, that I will be far too busy tomorrow evening.”

 

“Nonsense.” Barsad shakes his head. “You will have more than enough time for both. Darkness comes quickly this time of year, in Gotham. First, interrogate Gordon, then go to spend time with our string. I will give you his number, and you will call him on the telephone.”

 

Bane's eyes flick over towards the device handing on the wall, dubious. “Surely it can wait.”

 

“It cannot. If we give him too much time, he may second guess himself, decide that it was a 'bad idea' to agree to meet with us. We must convince him otherwise, before it comes to that.”

 

“You would be better at this,” Bane says as he slides his empty bowl across the wood of the table.

 

“Nonsense. You will be wonderful.” Barsad takes his mask, kissing his lips and then the muzzle of the mask before he helps to slip it over his face. He pulls a scrap of paper from one of the myriad of pockets on his pants and presses it firmly into Bane's palm. “Call him now, before you lose your nerve.”

 

“I do _not_ lose my nerves.”

 

“Of course not,” Barsad agrees, kissing Bane’s brow, before he stands, “forgive me for such a thought. I will give you some privacy... then you should come spend some time with me in bed.”

 

“I am hardly tired.”

 

“Good. Neither am I,” Barsad tosses back as Bane watches him walk out the kitchen door.

 

Ah.

 

He pushes the tempting thought from his mind, for the moment, as he stares down at the string of numbers in his hand. Truly, his brother seems to have a penchant for completely pushing him out of his element.

 

It takes some time for him to convince his body to move from the table, to lift the phone from the receiver, and an even longer time, still, to finally dial the set of numbers.

____________________

 

“John Blake?” The voice crackling out of the receiver is staticky, muffled. John thought it would be Rachel when the phone rang while he was getting ready for work. He nearly drops the plate of leftovers when a decidedly male voice responds, instead, to his hello.

 

“Uh, hey?” He swallows roughly around a bite of reheated green beans. This isn't Barsad's voice, and he isn’t sure what he was expecting when he hesitantly gave the other man the telephone number to Bruce's penthouse... but this certainly isn't it. Bane really doesn't strike him as the type to use a phone.

 

There is only silence over the phone for almost a minute. John would wonder if he's been hung up on, but he can still hear the quiet sound of breathing. Is he nervous? Great. John's nervous, too. Somehow, it makes him feel a little better about this.

 

“It is good to hear from you,” Bane finally says quietly. “I am certain you are not surprised that Barsad has told me of what transpired last night. He has given me this number... told me to speak with you.”  
  
John laughs a little, mostly it's nerves, but he can sort of picture Barsad ordering Bane around and, well, it's funny, kind of cute, not that he'll be saying that out loud. “Yeah, uh, I uh, gave it to him.”

 

He still isn't entirely sure Barsad hadn't worked some sort of crazy spell over him to get him to give the number up, last night. The rest of the night had been a blur, after that moment. He could barely remember sitting down numbly in his seat, and ordering a meal that had been more filling and nutritious than anything he'd eaten in a good long while, though he could barely taste it. He'd managed to talk a little, though, enough to be polite, and Rachel had commended him on a job well done, had thanked him for keeping her company before they parted ways that night.

 

“Yes, we are grateful for it,” Bane says, “that you would give us this opportunity to know you... Will you allow me to do so more, this evening?”

 

“This evening?” John repeats, brows shooting up high as he nearly chokes on a bite of steak. This evening is… this evening. This evening is really fucking soon.

 

“It would not be until later in the night. I have some business to attend to. I will understand if you wish to sleep.”

 

It's a Friday night. Rachel has told him he won't be needed in the office the next morning... He chews over his bottom lip, adding his own silence to the phone line. He's sure Bane wants to come over there, to this apartment, and in some ways that's good, he won't have to figure out how to get to Wayne Manor, and he's pretty sure Bane isn't the sort who likes to go out in public. But it's also... private, really private, and his stomach flip flops at the idea for more than one reason. Fuck it. If he says no, he is just going to be lying in bed all night, wondering what would have happened if he'd said yes.

 

“You can come over tonight... I stay up pretty late, anyway... Wait, is it just going to be you?”

 

“We did not wish to overwhelm you. If you would wish Barsad, instead—”

 

He sounds so understanding about John not wanting it to be him, that he finds himself unexpectedly interrupting. “No, hey, I didn't say that. That's fair, and, uh... It's thoughtful.” It is. John isn't used to a lot of people wanting to get to know him at once, or at all.

 

“Tonight, then,” Bane agrees, and they set up a tentative time frame before John hangs up the phone. After, his fingers are shaking against the receiver, not quite believing what he has just agreed to. There is a little pull to his string, not Barsad, it can't be, he promised, and for some reason John believes him. That means it's Bane's string, and damn if it doesn't feel almost as nervous as he does.

 

The sudden thought of maybe twisting it in response crosses his mind, and he shakes it off. This... This is way too new, and John's far too guarded to just start going messing around with those strings, after he spent so many years pretending they don't even exist.

 

 

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

“He said yes?”

 

Bane looks over at Barsad while he is straddling the Ducati. Bruce has noticed he favors it, and told him to enjoy it, to consider it his own. Bane will not take such an extravagant gift... But he will ride it, only because it is useful for transport in the dark, as they will be doing, now. Otherwise, he does not outfit himself nearly as much as Bruce. Bruce enjoys his fancy weaponry, new gadgets. He will not tease him for it as Barsad does, but Bane will always prefer the simple power of his fists, the security of a scrapped together body armor made to protect his vital organs. Beyond that, there is only the helmet to cover his mask, and a heavy, dark leather jacket to hide his mass in the darkness of Gotham's night.

 

“He said yes,” he answers as he pulls on the helmet. Even then, he does not miss the sudden, wide grin spreading over Barsad's face.

 

“This is good news. I will not expect you home with Bruce. Enjoy yourself.”

 

His fingers certainly do not twitch as he pulls leather gloves over them. It would be entirely foolish to be nervous for a simple meeting when he has never felt so before the heat of a fight, or a covert mission as the one beginning now.

 

“You will not be bored?” he asks, instead, ignoring the pleased spark to his brother's eyes. He is _amusing_ him again.

 

“I will not. I will steal Talia from Bruce for the evening. He will simply have to brood on his own.”

 

“I can hear you,” Bruce points out, dryly, as he slides onto his own bike. There is the tumbler, but this is certainly not the right sort of task for it.

 

“I am quite aware.” Barsad smacks his hand over the back of his shoulder, answering almost cheerfully before Bruce shifts into gear, racing Bane out of the garage.

 

It is not the playful chase he experienced with Barsad before, but Bane does indeed enjoy the ride, as they have their own sort of race into one of the poorer districts in Gotham. It is certainly not the Narrows, but it is clear in its own way that Gordon is not taking any sort of bribe, if his housing is any indication.

 

They are soundless, together, after hiding the bikes. No words needed, training has made them work together fluidly as they slip up an alley fire escape and watch. Gordon is having an early dinner with his family, a small child fussing as it makes its way through a meal of pasta. They wait. There is no sense in going to the door, it lacks theatricality. and it would be a shame to scare the children.

 

Their opportunity comes when Gordon leaves the small house to take out the garbage.

 

“A storm's coming.” Bruce rasps the words out from his perch, and there is an instant recognition for Bruce's persona by Gordon, and then an equally shrewd realization that Bane is 'new', not who was seen running through the rooftops with 'the bat' before, or fitting the description of the other seen in the warehouse district. Bane can see the quick deduction in Gordon's eyes in mere seconds as he observes them, there and gone with the quick furrowing then smoothing of his brow, before he shuts the door to his home to give them privacy from his family.

 

Perhaps he is wisely chosen, after all.

 

“Just how many of you are there?”  
  
“Enough,” Bane says quietly, amused at how Gordon's eyes keep flicking towards his mask, as though he is uncertain which of theirs is stranger.

 

“You know, the scum is getting jumpy because you stood up to Falcone.”

 

“It's a start. Your partner was at the docks, with Falcone,” Bruce points out. Gordon looks unsurprised to know his partner is part of the 'scum' he has just mentioned in Gotham, though Bane supposes that it would be near impossible to find a 'clean' partner to work with, in the police department.

 

“Well, he moonlights as a low-level enforcer,” Gordon admits.

 

“We must know more about these shipments,” Bane says. “Only half of the drugs contained within were going to dealers. Where would the other half go?” It is the other half that they are concerned about. The first half was confiscated, the second half, however, disappeared before it ever went into police custody.

 

This clearly surprises Gordon, and his brow furrows in confusion. “Why would they split them? What about the other half?”

 

“Flass knows,” Bruce points out, and Gordon looks away quickly, a slight shake of his head.

 

“He won't talk.”

 

“He will talk to us,” Bane says with a calm confidence. Gordon does not wish to know his meaning, that much is obvious by how he changes the subject, warning them that the commissioner is setting up a 'massive task force' to catch them, and that they are thought of as dangerous. How curious, that such a thing can be managed for a handful of masked vigilantes, but the same cannot be done for a group of drug dealers. Apparently, the commissioner does not look at them as 'dangerous'.

 

“What do you think?” Bruce asks. Bane does not truly care, but he will admit to being curious.

 

“I think you guys are just trying to help,” Gordon admits as he looks away. They have obtained all of the information that they will from him, though, and they leave quickly in the shadows. There is one more stop to be made that night.

 

“We can't torture him, Bane.”

 

“I am quite certain that we can. It certainly does not break your rather wavery rule against killing.”

 

“Wavery? Look, that's not the point. It's _wrong._ ”

 

“As are his crimes. If you cannot get the information from him nicely, then what else do you expect?”

 

“I never said I was going to be _nice_ ,” Bruce says dryly, and there is a quirk to his lips, strange to see with so much else hidden away by his cowl.

 

“And what will we do, then?” Bane asks, his head tilting as he resettles himself on his motorbike.

 

“Scare it out of him.” Bruce's tone is confident, and it makes a low chuckle rise from Bane as they take off. If it can be done, they will indeed be the ones to do it.

 

They watch from a street corner. Flass is not hard to track. He knows that he is part of the law, and therefore above scrutiny, even while his practices are worthy of punishment. They move from their vehicles, Bruce scaling the buildings while Bane remains on the ground level. They are tailing him, hunting him, as he stuffs his face, rain dripping from his thick form as he moves fearlessly into a dark alley. He has friends in high places among the low life. He never considers that he is not safe.

 

There is a wordless signal between them, no more than the curl of Bruce's fingers, and the slight nod of Bane's head. The tripwire laid out seamlessly releases, eliciting a scream of terror from their prey as he is zipped up to the rooftops by his ankle. No one heeds the call. This is Gotham, after all.

 

Bane tips his head up and watches from below. While Bruce's rough voice would have been lost to the sound of the downpour, before, now above he is growling into the man's face as he grasps his hair, yanking him closer.

 

“ _ **Where were the other drugs going?!”**_

 

It is the darker side to his brother that lurks beneath the surface. Bane can admit that he enjoys seeing it brought forth. He cannot hear the man's response beyond his terror, but it is clearly not favorable. There is another scream as Flass plummets headfirst towards the concrete. His entire body jerks, and he is inches from the ground with his arms spread out instinctively as if they could break his fall.

 

Bane takes the opportunity to reach down and gasp the man’s soaked jacket, pulling his body upward, easily, so that they are face to face, now. It is cold, his mask puffing out chilly water and fogged air over the man's face, and Bane watches as already dilated pupils blow open further in terror.

 

“I believe, that you were asked a question.” Bane's voice is calm, not the growl of Bruce's, but it cuts clearly through the storm, and he watches as the man frantically shakes his head.

 

“I don't know, I never knew, never!”

 

Bane calmly releases his grip, and watches as he is snapped back up to Bruce, for the bat to have his turn. Whatever knowledge he is given is favorable, as Bane sees the small wave of Bruce's hand, a sign to vanish from the ground while Flass is released to it. Theatricality and deception, after all.

 

His helmet is already in place as Bruce waits for the alleyways to clear. It would not do to simply be spotted walking the streets. His cowl and cape are off, hidden in a saddlebag, while a leather jacket covers much of his suit. It is an easier way to traverse the streets without the worry of being stopped by the police.

 

“I would still consider that torture,” Bane says calmly as they settle to ride once more.

 

“Psychological... and it won't leave more than a few bruises.”

 

“You might have just said you did not wish me to remove any appendages,” Bane points out as he slides his helmet back on. He is certain, though, that Bruce is just as amused as he is. “What did you discover?”

 

Bruce's face turns to stone, at that. “We were right. There's something else in the separated drugs. If this isn't Ra's, I'll be amazed.”

 

“We will still need to locate them, a sample, to test the potency, the effects. More information is needed,” Bane points out, and Bruce nods, clearly expecting this.

 

“Flass said they went to 'a guy in the Narrows', but he didn't have anything else. He's a dead end. The only thing to do now, is to go investigate, there. I can have Barsad or Talia use the computer, get us a listing of any abandoned buildings or apartments there, and check those out first.

 

“It will be a needle in a haystack.” But Bane knows there is not much else to do at this point. “You wish to begin tonight?”

 

“We don't know how many men Ra's has behind this. There's just four of us. I'd like to stop anything before it starts.”

 

“Agreed.” Bane nods seriously. “But you will need to contact Talia or Barsad to help you... I have—”

 

“A date.” The words roll off of Bruce's tongue with the same teasing tone as Barsad's. He likes it no more from him. “I know. Don't worry about it.”

 

“You will contact them?”

 

“I'll take care of it.”

 

____________________

 

Entertaining. John has never 'entertained' before, for many reasons, the main two being that he has never had anyone to entertain or anywhere to entertain them. He's quickly realizing that he has no idea what to do, in this situation. Great.

 

He's already picked up. He had been sure that was part of it. There is a free maid service, of all things, as part of the penthouse. John had discovered that while looking at the phone listings on the fridge, but he doesn’t mind picking up after himself, obviously, and he's done just that, hell he's even vacuumed, another first. It isn’t even his place, but he feels a strange sense of accomplishment from the whole idea, of taking care of his living space, and he's now just standing in the living room surveying the fresh vacuum lines on the carpet.

 

Now he's kind of at a loss for what's next, though.

 

Food, maybe? It was later, maybe he should feed Bane dinner? That would be a good time consumer, and his mouth would be full, so he wouldn't have to think of as many things to say. He wasn't sure about the mask... but, come on, it had to come off to eat, right? God, he hoped, or it was going to be really awkward.

 

Takeout, definitely takeout. He was pretty sure it would be rude to feed Bane from the cheapo packets of ramen that he'd picked up to live off of. He hadn't gotten his first paycheck just yet, but he'd had a little bit tucked away from months and months of scrapping, and he'd gone out and bought enough dried noodles, hot dogs, and instant potatoes to last him for months, in case for some reason the job didn't work out.

 

It is, though, it is working out really fucking well, and he happened to know that, minimum wage or not, by the end of the week, he’ll have about 54 hours in, and with overtime, will be looking at more money than he usually made in a month. That is guaranteed money, something he's never really had, before, and for once, John feels like splurging, just a little. This is kind of a date, of sorts, after all.

 

He's really tempted to order pizza. Some real pizza sounds pretty amazing, but he doesn't know exactly when Bane will be getting there, and pizza is always best fresh. Some Chinese food, though? That sounds just as good, and he figures it's got a better reheat value, plus he hasn't heard of anyone not liking noodles.

 

Clean apartment, food... John's starting to feel like maybe he can do this. He keeps feeling like that, while he figures out a place close by that delivers from the front desk, while he tries to pay for the food only to find out the front desk has already taken care of it, and even while he's sitting on a stool at the bar type area in the corner of the living room, the scent of grease and soy assaulting his senses and making him wonder if Bane would notice just a little missing from each carton.

 

He keeps feeling like he can do this all the way up to the point when a small chime sounds off in the room, letting him know someone is using the private elevator.

 

He can't do this. This is a terrible idea. He can feel his heart beginning to race in his chest as he tries to remember why he'd agreed to this, but all of the memories and thoughts of just why he'd been _avoiding_ them his entire life pop up, instead.

 

Because the best case scenario is that he falls in love and gets left alone, all over again. This city takes everything too soon, and even though it's hidden John away like he wanted for so many years, he suddenly feels a small simmer of resentment bubbling inside of him when the thought is actualized. It's a really bad time to have sudden epiphanies like that. He has company.

 

Really big company. It was easy to forget, from their short meeting, just how huge Bane actually is. It feels like he fills the elevator when John sees the doors slide open and him standing inside of it. It was easy to forget all of that. Or was it? Because sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he can still remember the leather scent of Bane's coat filling his lungs as he'd held onto him for that long motorcycle ride.

 

It's a bad time for a tinge of red to heat his cheeks. He rubs his face quickly, and bobs his head in greeting, as Bane steps out. He looks as out of place as John is in the swank apartment, the same leather jacket he'd worn before, heavy work boots, a sleek red helmet still on, visor down to cover the mask that John knows hides under it.

 

“Uh, hey.”

 

Heavy hands reach up to pull the helmet off slowly, carefully, and John figures it'd gotta be hard to fit both on. Bane's face and the mask fitting it are revealed, and John, well, John has always been curious, and he feels it welling up a bit more inside.

 

“Hello, John. It is a pleasure to see you again,” Bane says, and John hadn't been paying attention before, to his voice. It sounds like nothing he has ever heard before, so serious, with an accent that John can’t begin to hope to place.

 

“You can uh, come in,” John says when he realizes that Bane is still just standing there. “Put the helmet anywhere, I guess... I ordered dinner.”

 

Bane pauses in setting the helmet down onto an end table. “I have... eaten, thank you.”

 

Shit. Of course he has, it's late. Most people would have eaten by now, or maybe Bane doesn’t like to eat in front of other people, at all. He is wearing the mask, still, which maybe means it doesn’t ever come off. More questions, but now with the steady heat of embarrassment running through him, he isn't thinking about them as much.

 

“I uh,” John stops and swallows. “Oh.”

 

Bane looks towards him as he begins to remove his gloves and jacket. “If you have not eaten, you are of course welcome to...” Bane stops, and his hand clenches and releases as soon as he pulls it free from his glove. John can see the ever so slight twitch to his fingers.

 

John suddenly realizes. They're both feeling awkward and nervous as hell. He could laugh, he doesn't, because he doesn't want to make things worse, but he could, and it makes one of the knots of tension release in his stomach. They both don't have a fucking clue what they're doing, and maybe that means there aren't any rules here, really.

 

“I don't really know what to do with you,” he finally admits out loud, tentatively glancing up at Bane as he dumps some noodles out onto a plate. They smell good, and god, is he hungry. “I kinda thought food, because then we wouldn't have to talk or think as much.”

 

“I am sorry to have ruined that for you,” Bane says as he steps closer to the bar. It's said with the kind of tone that's amused, that if John could see the rest of Bane's face, he'd imagine his lips pressing together with the amusement. “I admit... that I am at a loss, as well. Barsad... is much better at these types of things.”

 

“Yeah, he seems the type,” John agrees, slurping in a big bite of noodles, having to hold back a groan. It's been a while since the delicious combination of soy and salt and fat has graced his tongue. He chews, remembering to swallow. “Well... what do you usually do with him?" he asks, feeling out of place, still, as he takes another bite of his food, but they're both out of place, and that is its own comfort, in a way.

 

"We train often," Bane answers, and finally sits on one of the stools not far from John, letting his hand rest on the bar top beside John. He seems better, too, like there's less weird tension between them.

 

"I uh, well, you'd probably break my neck," John says, and Bane makes an amused noise.

 

"I would not. Do not forget that I saw how you faired with your opponent, before. You are untrained, but you are determined, strong."

 

As far as compliments go... It might be the nicest one John's ever gotten. He resists the urge to duck his head. "It—still, the apartment isn't exactly the best place for uh, training. What else do you do?"

 

Bane clearly takes the question really seriously. His pale brows furrow, and he rests his hands under his chin and mask, in thought. "I like to read, we read together, at times... We discuss strategy, things that we have read."

 

"I'm not much of a reader," John admits, feeling like he's being a disappointment just by saying it. It's not like he doesn't like to read, it's just that he never really has the time nowadays. "Anything else?"

 

"I like to touch him," Bane says after a pause, like he's wracking his brain for ideas.

 

"I—" John swallows hard, and he fights the red that suddenly tips his ears. "I don't think I'm really ready for uh... That."

 

Bane looks at him, puzzled, and then John can see those massive muscles in his shoulders tense and tighten even under the black shirt he's wearing. "I did not mean... Like you are thinking, or to imply that we should... I was simply listing things. I like to hold him. It is... Peaceful."

 

John isn't sure that's much better, and he almost admits it in a manly, squeaked out, whisper, but Bane seems so genuine about it, that he feels bad. "I... How about we sit down on the couch, and watch a movie or something?"

 

"A movie?" Bane nods and seems pleased at the thought. "I have seen the television, the news, but I have not yet found the opportunity to watch a movie."

 

Curiosity burns at John. God, he wants to know. He has a whole lot of questions about what the hell that means. He also has some other questions, things that have been floating around in his head since he entertained this absolutely ridiculous notion of taking a chance with them, of maybe letting them in.

 

Things like, ‘Oh, hey, are you masked vigilantes? Do you know Bruce Wayne is Batman? Because it's pretty obvious, isn't it?’ But those don't seem like the appropriate questions to ask during... whatever this is.

 

Instead, he just takes another bite of noodles, swallowing them down and glancing up into Bane's eyes. "Yeah, ok, we'll watch a movie together." There is bound to be something on television. John hadn't gone exploring it much, but he is pretty sure a billionaire would be hooked up with something better than basic cable.

 

Bane nods and stands without a word, walking over to the plush leather couch in the living room. John scrambles after him with his plate, slurping in another bite. He guesses he can't blame Bane for wanting to do something other than watch him eat. If he spills, he'll just turn over the couch cushion or something. It doesn't exactly seem like Bruce comes here often, anyway. It's a dangerous thing, he's getting a little too used to this place feeling like his, and he knows it. He doesn't think Bruce is going to kick him out suddenly, but John has learned a long time ago to never trust people entirely, and Bruce has no reason to keep being so generous with him. He can't get too comfortable.

 

Except, it actually is pretty comfortable, sitting down on the couch here and doing something as mundane with someone else as scoping out a movie to watch together. He holds the remote out for Bane, suddenly not sure if the other man can even use it with what he'd said before, but he takes it easily enough, glances down at the buttons and seems more than capable of figuring it out on his own.

 

“You didn't have TV growing up?” He can't help but ask it. They're supposed to get to know each other, right? It's gotta be ok to ask a couple of things, at least.

 

“We did not.” Bane says it quietly, and John sees his pale brow furrowing in concentration as he looks through the titles on the screen. “I do not know which of these are movies,” he admits, holding out the remote for John. Their fingers brush, and John has to make his heart calm down just a little as he holds the remote out.

 

“I... Fuck.” John laughs, because, just looking at the titles, he realizes he doesn't know all that much, either. He hasn't just sat down and watched a movie in a long time, or a television show, for that matter, and it was more than a little hard to tell which was which. “I think your guess is as good as mine.”

 

They channel surf, instead. John precariously balances his plate of food on one knee as they flip through each channel together, to inspect the contents. They hit about forty seven commercials, seven news channels, and thirteen shitty TV series before they find even one movie.

 

“Sorry, I don't think you want to watch a Disney movie...” John's voice trails off when he realizes Bane is staring at the screen. “Or maybe you do?”

 

“This is animation... pictures drawn and brought to life.” Bane voice is near breathless as he watches. “I have seen it before, someone once made a flower grow in the torn corner pages of a book. I did not realize it could be done so well, so seamlessly.”

 

Starting out his day, John had no idea he'd end up on the couch watching Mulan, but how is he going to change the channel, now? Besides, it is a good movie. He remembers watching it years ago, and after his plate is set aside, he finds himself settling back on the couch more, breathing, and relaxing. And if he feels his eyelids growing heavier as the movie wears on, if he feels the cushions under him dipping down more as Bane stretches out on the couch, closer, and if John's head finds itself against the warm, sturdy heat of Bane's shoulder by the time the credit music begins to play...

 

Well, maybe he was ok with how the night was going.

 

“You are falling asleep.” The voice drifts softly down to his ears, a finger touching his cheekbone. It's gentle, not dangerous, and for once John doesn't find himself snapping back awake, startling himself. Instead, his brown eyes blink open hazily, and he's looking blearily up into Bane's.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“I do not mind... You looked peaceful. I only did not know if you wished me to go.”

 

“Watch another movie with me,” John mumbles out, but Bane seems to understand it, picking up the remote to find another. He's still flipping through channels by the time John is closing his eyes again, and letting the world blur warmly, contently, safely.

 

Fingers wrap around his shoulder, an arm around his back feeling heavy and warm, and he knows what Bane meant, now, by saying he likes to touch Barsad, and right now, maybe it's not as bad as John feared.

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

“He was truly sound asleep by the time you left?” Barsad asks, and his lips twist with amusement.

 

“I am afraid he found me quite dull.”

 

“Safe. He felt safe enough to fall asleep in your arms. Do not belittle it. You do not fool me.”

 

“It was... not unpleasant,” Bane admits quietly. “We did not speak much, though.”

 

“Sometimes words are not needed,” Barsad assures him. He is pleased that it went well, though somewhat jealous at the idea of having missed the pair snuggled together on a couch. Something as mundane as a movie night has its own sort of strange appeal, especially living as they did. Barsad can honestly not recall the last time he has watched one. Perhaps they could all watch their next one together.

 

“If you are certain... I enjoyed myself. Thank you for encouraging it.” Bane is still dressed from the outing, and they are in the garage together, putting away the motorcycle for the night. Barsad had been meditating with Talia quietly when he heard it coming, had wished to join Bane in the garage for news as soon as possible. “Is he with her?”

 

“Bruce?” Barsad shakes his head. “He said he had other business to attend to, that he mentioned it to you.”

 

Bane's pale brows knit together. “He did, and I told him that he should not go alone.”

 

Of course. Barsad rubs his hand over his face. “Our brother. He who insists he act alone, when he has a family waiting in the wings to aide him. What has he gotten himself into?”

 

“He is investigating a possible lead in the Narrows, most likely. We learned from a reluctant source that half of the drugs shipments are going to a 'man in the Narrows', and that there is something else in the delivered drugs.”

 

“Does he believe that Ra's Al Ghul is that man?” Barsad's voice is tense. His brother should never have gone alone in this.

 

“It is possible, or it is possible that there is another man who is overseeing things for him. It is highly unlikely that this is purely coincidental.”

 

“We will get Talia, speak to him through his communicator. Berate him.” Barsad's teeth bite into his inner cheek as he stalks to gather up Talia. She is already down in their makeshift base of operations set up in the cave that Bruce and Bane had discovered together. She enjoys the solace down there, the rushing of water around her, and now she sits, carefully sharpening one of her knives with an expert precision.

 

“What is it?” She lowers the blade away from an eye-level inspection as they both step from the old elevator. Her brows knit together at the obvious displeasure on their faces. “Is something wrong?”

 

“Your string was merely somewhat deceptive of his intentions for the evening,” Bane answers, his large hand dropping to her shoulder. “He did not seek assistance from one or both of you, when he should have.”

 

Her lips purse. “How _unlike_ him.” Her dry tone forces Barsad to laugh, for the tension in his shoulders to relax, imperceptibly.

 

“You are right,” he agrees. “Let us check on him, though. I am sure you have words to share with him.”

 

She hums quietly in agreement. “There are a variety to choose from.” Carefully placing away her blade, Talia sits in one of the chairs beside the computer setup, one delicate finger touching the communicator tucked against her ear. “ _Bruce._ Bruce where are you?” His response can be heard through the computer speakers.

 

“I'm just out doing... research, Talia. I'll be home soon.”

 

“Bruce. We are supposed to be a team. Being a team means we have to be able to trust one another.”

 

“Of course you can _trust_ me, Talia, it's me. I just wanted to do this on my own. There was no sense in wasting your time on it, too.”

 

“Are you truly off scaling walls in the Narrows, and peeking through windows, without us?” she asks, her fingernails lightly drumming over the computer's keyboard.

 

“Yeah.” There's a short breath, almost a laugh. “And it's cold, boring, and I just want to be back in bed, with you.”

 

Talia's eyes widen almost imperceptibly, her throat clears sharply, and there is a long pause over the communication system.

 

“...They're—”

 

“Just tell me you will be home soon,” she interrupts, a touch of color to her cheeks. Barsad does not find it amusing in the _slightest_ , and he is certain Bane is trying to put it out of his own mind. “This is something that would have been completed faster with all of us splitting into a grid.” She pauses and her eyes flick up at them both.  
  
“And then you would have been back in bed sooner.”

 

Not in the slightest. He clenches his jaw while Bruce answers.

 

“I'm almost done. I promise...” His voice trails off suddenly, distracted, and a softer voice, nearly hushed with awe, comes in through the communicator.

 

“ _It's you isn't it? The other kids won't believe me...”_

 

“Great. Now he is playing with children,” Barsad mutters. “Tell him to come back. We have enough worries.”

 

“ _Bruce_.” Talia's tone takes on one of complete exasperation.

 

“He's not going to say anything to any adults, besides, I see something. I'm just going to check it out.”

 

“Wait. Give us an adre—”  
  
The communication is turned off. There is, of course, a tracker in the suit, but it is not built with pinpoint accuracy in mind, and the buildings in the Narrows are crammed together, nearly sprawled on top of one another, with many floors between them. There are hundreds of possibilities, even with the small glowing dot outlined on the map lighting up the computer screen.

 

Barsad swears. “He will get himself killed, one day.” He regrets it as soon as it is spoken, as soon as he sees the sudden furrow of worry to Talia's brow. “And it will be because I killed him,” he adds, placing a hand on her shoulder. It is too late, though. The thought has already been planted, and he can see how her fingers are tensed against the keyboard as she attempts to work out a possible location for him.

 

“If he is being covert, the last thing he will need will be us storming in,” Bane points out as he pulls a chair to sit beside her.

 

“Would you wait if it was me?” Talia asks, her nails clicking over the keyboard.

 

Bane looks nearly disgruntled at the thought. “You would never be so foolish as to do this.”

 

“True.” She answers, her voice distant. She is not truly listening. None of them speak for some time, after that. The silence fills with the rush of water and the click of keys. In truth, is it perhaps only five minutes, but it feels as though there is a black pit, bubbling with tension, as Talia manages to turn Bruce's communicator back on through her end of the system.

 

It is then that the pit bubbles over. At first, Barsad thinks it is only static they hear. But no. It is the sound of rain and labored breathing, a whimper. Fear.

 

“Bruce?”

 

A short, startled gasp is heard, like a lifeline has been thrown out to a man who thought he would surely drown. “Talia!” If he could cling to that voice, he would, there is no thought of pride in that one, only desperation. “Talia, help me!”

 

“The tumbler.” Barsad closes the intercom quickly.

 

Instincts and training snap through all of them. There is not another word as they race towards it. Barsad turns to face Bane. “We will need someone to—”

 

“We will all go,” Bane quickly interjects. Barsad's hand is up to still him, fingers digging firmly into his shoulder to ground him as he looks up into the deep worry hidden behind gray eyes.  
  


“No. If this is the chemicals, we will need help. They are likely altered, stronger than any powder we have inhaled, and well beyond our personal capabilities. You must contact Mr. Fox.” They had done much research on their man inside Applied Sciences. Experience in synthesizing chemicals was something they might very well need, at this moment. “Tell him as little as you can. He does not wish to be liable for anything, and we will respect that.”

 

Bane's body is tense, and he is ready to argue. Barsad understands, but he will be faster than three of them traveling, and there would be no keeping Talia from this. He would feel the same, in her position. “Brother. This is where you are _needed_ ,” Barsad emphasizes, squeezing his hands into Bane's tensed shoulders. “Please. We are counting on you.”

 

A terse nod, and Bane is gone to make the call. Relieved, Barsad goes to lift the door of the tumbler. A quiet curse tears from his lips when he hears the engine of it turn. He scrambles, barely making it into the passenger side before Talia is tearing out of the cave.

 

“We will _hardly_ benefit from another of us going out alone,” Barsad berates her as he slumps back into the passenger seat.

 

“Time is of the essence.” Talia's words are clipped as her fingers tightly grip the wheel. “I knew that you would make it to join me.”

 

Barsad grunts, checking to see that he at least has a knife clipped into his boot. They are woefully unprepared for whatever they might face, and it sets his teeth on edge. The pouring rain does nothing to soothe it. This. This is why he is going to punch Bruce as soon as he is home and well and safe.

 

Right after Talia does the same.

 

“When we are close enough, we can simply follow your string, but before that, we will need a plan. He gave nothing of his location. We will need to trace his tracks.”  
  
“He is trained by us, Barsad. He is not supposed to leave _tracks_.”

 

“We will find _something_ ,” he snaps back, both of their tempers rising with tension. He forces his head back against the headrest, sucking a long breath in through his nose, calming. “We will find him, Talia,” he says again, quieter, more reassuring.

 

Her head tilts, barely perceptible in the dark interior of the vehicle. He can see the white gleam of her teeth sinking into the softness of her bottom lip. She has lost so much, in such a short life, has had so much denied her. Barsad will not let this be taken from her, as well.

 

____________________

 

Bane sits down at one of the small stools in the kitchen, feeling it creak under his weight, the cushion sinking in as he traces his thumb over the phone’s receiver. There has been no report, yet, and he does not expect one until Bruce was found. Anything else would be a waste of valued time. He has already put in a call to Mr. Fox, who sounded groggy, confused, as Bane found himself haltingly explaining as much as he could of the situation, and as little as he could, at the same time.

 

“ _Let me get this straight, Mr. Bane. Bruce Wayne may or may not have been exposed to a chemical hallucinogenic weapon, and I may or may not be needed to take blood samples to see if I can synthesize an antidote?”_

 

“ _More or less.”_

 

“ _I'll get my coat.”_

 

It was a short call, and after its completion, he feels quite useless. He understands exactly why he was kept from following after them. This truly is needed, and it would feel wrong to wake Alfred for it, to make the man worry endlessly over his charge. It is sparing him, but in turn it feels as though a heavy cloud has descended over him in the kitchen, something ominous, and foreboding, and unshakeable as he sits alone.

 

It is what has him raising his hand, his large finger sliding into the dialer of the old telephone, winding it around with a definitive pull of his finger with each number selected. He has only dialed it once before, but it is not as though he has dialed many others, and each digit sticks with him until he hears the soft chirps of the phone ringing.

 

“Hello, Rachel?” The voice is soft, croaky, and befuddled with sleep. Hearing it makes some of the tension in Bane's chest loosen out, letting him breathe. Clearly, it can be heard through the receiver, the different rasp. “Bane?” he guesses then, and there is a shifting noise, the quiet creak of bed springs. It seems that John made it to the bed after he had left him asleep on the couch. “Hey... it's late, is something wrong?”

 

Yes. Bane reminds himself that it is late, much later than most are up, and it would be strange to call at this hour. They are realizations that did not dawn on him until this moment. “I am sorry. I should not have called so late.”

 

John clears his throat, scratchy still. Bane finds himself wondering if he is stretched out again on the bed, if he is rubbing the sleep from his eyes, if he sleeps as he does with Barsad, in soft cloth pants and bare chest. The last thought surprises him, that he would even be curious. Now is not the time, though, to explore that, John is speaking.

 

“No, it's ok. I'm sorry I fell asleep on you. I guess that was kind of rude.” There is a sleepy sort of amusement to his tone, and it has Bane relaxing as he hears it.

 

“I did not mind. I enjoyed myself.”

 

“Yeah... I did, too. We could do it again, if you wanted. I could try not to fall asleep on you, next time.” It's tentatively offered, as if he expects Bane might say no. Just the opposite. It has Bane sitting forward more in the stool. In spite of the situation he is in, a small, hidden smile lights his face.

 

“I would like that very much, John.”

 

“Yeah? Ok, me, too.” There's a smile to John's voice. It is just as unseen, over the line, but Bane can sense it is there. “You're sure everything is ok?”

 

“It is... complicated.” He nearly says it is a family matter, but he stops himself, not wishing John to feel as though he is being shut out. It is not for him to know, though, at least not yet. “A stressful situation in our work... I thought it might be nice to hear your voice.”

 

There is a long pause, as though John is digesting this information before he answers. “Yeah? I can't say I've heard that one, before.”

 

“I would hope _not_ ,” Bane answers quickly, surprised at the jealousy in his own voice. How did it become so vocal so quickly? However it came to be, it draws a surprised chuckle from John.

 

“I wouldn't worry too much. Our date yesterday, or, well, I guess earlier tonight, still, it was definitely the first time I'd even done something like that.”

 

“And for me, as well. It was very... conventional.”

 

“You mean normal?”

 

“Yes... Normal. Is that a strange thing? To like that it was normal?” Bane asks, uncertain.

 

“No... You know what? I kind of liked that, too.”

 

It by no means fixes things, the conversation. Even when it is finished, and Bane hangs up the phone, his index finger tracing thoughtfully over the phone's ebony handle, he knows that nothing has truly changed in their dilemma. But he _feels_ better, more optimistic that Bruce will be found, brought home with them.

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

Tension. It is coiling up in them both, ready to snap out. The previous GPS coordinates are even less useful than they first thought. There is no one on the streets, and that in itself is telling. Something has happened, and all are avoiding the outside for fear they are next. They have followed Bruce's footsteps as well as they could, have climbed through the windows of near-condemned apartments, calling out for him cautiously, trying to bring him back on the transmitter. Talia's string is of little help. It winds throughout so many buildings, looping around fire escapes, circling around and even disappearing through walls. There is simply too much, here, for it to lead them to him.

 

But in their haste, they are sloppy, too noisy on the fire escape of a dilapidated building, one better off condemned and yet still swarming with the lives of those who cannot afford better. It draws attention. A small head pokes out of the window, making them both stiffen until they see it is a child and not a threat.

 

“Are you his partners?” the boy whispers, blonde haired and blue eyed, and filled with wonder. Barsad almost dismisses it, Talia is ready to, in her earnest, but his eyes flick to what is in the boy's hand.

 

One of their devices, made to allow them to spy through walls.  
  
The soft voice from earlier echoes in his mind.  
  
“ _They'll never believe me.”_

 

He nearly laughs. Bruce, giving away millions of dollars’ worth of technology to a child. He crouches down on the guardrail and tucks his fingers under the boys chin to draw it up.  
  
“Yes. We are his friends. Can you tell us where he has gone?”

 

Little eyes widen in earnest. “He was on fire. I saw him go up to that roof.” His finger points up into the sky, Barsad leaning to follow it. Three buildings across.

 

_He was on fire_.

 

Barsad tries not to focus on that little detail as he pats at the boys head with his gloved hand. “This will be our little secret, I am certain, yes?” He watches the awed bob of the child's head as Talia is already scaling the next rooftop. He races to catch up with her, to cross over another.

 

And there he lies. His mouth is open in a scream, but there is nothing, not one sound coming from him as he stares up into the rain. The scent of singed fabrics reaches Barsad's nose as Talia kneels down. Her face is pale, paler still, in the dark, and it matches the patches of skin visible on Bruce's face.

 

“Bruce, Bruce!” When she repeats his name, it is met with a full body jerk. His eyes are open suddenly, pupils constricted to the size of pinpricks as his gloved hand latches onto her arm. Barsad expects the silent scream to turn sharp and high pitched as Bruce is jerked to life like he is on wires, but instead, there are quiet mutters pouring out of him. He sounds half mad, and well on his way to worse. Whatever has been done to the compounds in the blue flower, it is far stronger than anything they were tested with.

 

He only hopes that Bane had been successful in contacting Mr. Fox. They have their hands full. It is no small task to carry Bruce down from the rooftops, to take him into the tumbler relatively unseen. Talia's small body is curved carefully around him, worry pinching her features tight as she carefully works the cowl from his face.

 

“Bruce, Bruce, it is alright. It is alright, now. We have you now.”

 

 

It is the hospital all over again, after all of these years. It is sitting, and waiting, and wondering outside of Bruce's bedroom. Two days of it feels like two years, but there is little they can do. Both he and Bane have been banished from the bedroom, too many people, and they can only wait for word from Fox or hope that Bruce's body is strong enough to ride through the chemicals on its own.

 

The latter idea is seeming less and less likely with each passing hour. They can hear him there, his panicked, labored breathing, Talia's gentle tone. There are times when he seems almost lucid, others when there is only a single word or two of gibberish heard repeated again and again. It is setting Barsad's teeth on edge.

 

“Surely this can be done sooner.” He scrubs his hands through his beard, pulling on the coarse hairs to focus himself.

 

“It cannot be rushed,” Bane reminds him. His voice is patient, but his hands are constantly moving as his eyes focus on the bedroom door. They have pulled chairs into the hallway, making their own small 'waiting room'.

 

It only makes Barsad bolt up, stiffly, to pace the hall. His feet are bare, and the floor beneath them cool to the touch. It is good, it keeps him awake even as his shoulders are sore, his eyes more heavily lidded. He is tired, but there is too much to do. They must know what Bruce knows, and Bruce must heal. He has to be ok, for Talia, for them. He whirls around when Bane's fingers catch on his pant leg. The noise that leaves him is startled and undignified as he nearly tumbles into his lap.

 

“I should not have left him... I know how he can be.”

 

Barsad shakes his head when he sees the guilt in Bane's eyes. “No. We are not his babysitters, we are his teammates. You are allowed to breathe, Bane. No matter what happens, this was not your fault. You deserved this night with John.” He sighs and wraps his arms around him, touching his forehead to Bane's sturdy shoulder. “I am so tired. Come to bed with me. There is nothing we can do here, right now.”

 

Bane is clearly surprised by the quiet confession. Barsad hates to admit when he feels this way, but he hates even more for Bane to feel the same way, and for them both to fight through it needlessly.

 

“Surely we should—”

 

“There is nothing, nothing we can do at this time,” Barsad promises as he stands, hooking his hand to Bane's elbow to help pull his heavy weight up. They have already scoured the rooftop. There were no clues left behind there, nor on the suit, save for traces of gasoline used as an accelerant. “Let us not make ourselves useless with fatigue. They will both need us fresh.”

 

It sways Bane, and both of their footsteps are heavy before they strip off clothes made filthy with dirt and sweat, from work and worry. A quick wash, and Barsad is more than happy to be pulled close by heavy arms as the lights are turned out.

 

“I called him.” Bane's voice is softer, sleepy, as his hand touches of the skin of Barsad's chest. “After Mr. Fox.”

 

“You did?”

 

“I was... I did not know what to do, after. I felt very useless.”

 

He had wished for someone to talk to, comfort. Anyone else, and Barsad would feel jealousy twisting in his gut, but this... this is a good thing.

 

“Did your talk go well?”

 

“We did not speak of much, truly. It was late.”

 

“But it made you feel better?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then it went well, Bane.”

 

“I suppose that it did.”

 

____________________

 

The entire building is tense. John can feel it, the way everyone's walk is just a little quicker, and their shoulders a little tighter. No one is looking at one another, and there are condolences that aren't being said yet, but everyone is waiting to put them out there.

 

That's what happens when your boss, the DA, is maybe kind of dead.

 

John sips his coffee and tries to keep out of the way, makes phone calls that Rachel needs him to make. He doesn't say Mr. Finch is going to be fine. False platitudes like that are worthless in Gotham. He'd only met the man a couple of times, but John had liked him. He'd seemed like he honestly cared about crime in Gotham, which meant it was no surprise he was missing.

 

And the thought of that has him looking at Rachel over a file’s folder, swallowing a suddenly too-bitter swig of caffeine. He thinks about that night on the train. What if it had been just Rachel? She is smart, and fucking fearless, but she isn’t exactly a fighter. He doesn't want to see her getting hurt. In the short time he's known her, well... It's really fucking nice to have a friend.

 

“John?”

 

“Yeah?” He gives her a forced smile, the one she's already called him out on. “Sorry, no, I'm not seeing anything in these files. Do you want me to enter them into the database, anyway?”

 

“No, you go ahead and take a lunch break, ok? I have a meeting I have to get to.” He starts to stand when she shoulders her purse and she shoots him a look.

 

“It's in the building, John. I hired an assistant, not a body guard.”

 

“Is it that obvious?”

 

“It's a little obvious, yeah.”

 

“I'm just—”

 

“It's sweet, John.” She smiles at him. “It's nice that you care, but we've _both_ survived Gotham this long, I think we'll hold out till after lunch. You can use my office, ok?”

 

“Thanks.” He really could use the break. The words on the page have started swimming. Lunch is peanut butter and jelly. He even splurged a little and got the good jelly, real fruit. He chews it slowly and chases it with a cup of water from the fountain, but even then, it's over quickly, and he knows Rachel purposefully didn't give him anything else to work on so that he'd have to take an actual break for lunch.

 

What a terrible boss.

 

Her office is a small, cramped thing, something she's told John she'd have never had if they hadn't decided the room was too small for a broom closet. It does have a phone, though, and John's eyes rest on it more than once, his fingers slowly touching over it.

 

They haven't called.

 

It's only been a day or two, really that's not a long time, at all, or is it? John has no idea how this sort of thing works. Maybe they're giving him time. Bane had said there was some trouble there, so maybe they were busy. Busy being 'secret vigilantes'. He really wonders if he should bring that up. Is someone hurt? Are they having trouble taking down some big crime lord? It could be a bunch of different things, really. And maybe it's easier to think up all kinds of crazy ideas instead of thinking that maybe they just didn't want to call.

 

And he could always call, instead of sitting here going crazy. Maybe that's what they were waiting for.

 

It takes a breath of courage. He honestly can't believe he's memorized the number. He doesn't memorize phone numbers, but this one he presses out onto the buttons without fail, little beeps firing from the receiver to his ear as the phone begins to dial.

 

“Wayne Manor. Alfred Pennyworth, speaking.” It's a polite, clipped tone, clearly one for business, and not holding any of the warmth he’d felt only a week or so ago when the man cleaned his wounds. It makes his mouth go dry. This is a bad idea, and he almost hangs up, except he's not looking to prank call 'Wayne Manor', intentionally or not.

 

“Hey, uh, I doubt you remember me, but I was just there the other day and—”  
  
“John.” Alfred's voice shifts immediately, like ice thawing, and it makes the knot in John's stomach loosen. “Of course. It is a pleasure to hear from you again. I shall put you through to their bedroom, immediately.”

 

Bedroom? Apparently, they sleep later than he does. Well, he did first meet them on a late shift. He can't help but wonder if they're sleeping, at all. It's a good thing Rachel isn't here. He can feel the heat suddenly reaching his ears at the random train of thought as he is left alone on the phone line.

 

“Uh, thanks.”

 

He almost expects to hear elevator music, but apparently that isn't one of Wayne Manor's features. There's just silence, then the sound of a phone being picked up, the click of another hanging up.

 

“John?” It's not the strange rasp of Bane's voice through the line. It has to be Barsad, softer, more lilting even as his voice feels heavier with sleep.

 

“If this is a bad time...”

 

“No, there is no bad time to call, do not worry. Was there something you needed?”

 

Right. People sometimes had reasons for calling other people, because that made sense. His ears are heating again until he remembers the other night. Bane had called for no reason. Maybe it would have been better if he answered the phone... He nearly fumbles on his words, but he ends up clearing his throat, instead.

 

“No I just, uh, I thought I'd check in, see how you were... Bane said there was some trouble...”

 

“He said that?” Barsad's tone is clearly surprised. Maybe John shouldn't have said that.

 

“I mean, not anything specific, he was just—he just sounded like he could use someone to talk to.”

 

“Ah. Yes, he told me you had spoken.” There is a yawn over the phone, loud, followed by the creak of bed springs. “John's on the phone.” It's not said to him, obviously, and John can hear the soft, distant rasp of Bane's mask. Of course they're sharing a bed, it only makes sense, but for some reason the blatant knowledge now almost makes him flush further.

 

“John.” It's speakerphone, now, apparently. Their voices echo slightly, and Bane's is even harder to hear than usual, but it still almost makes him smile. He's pretty sure he's never actually been on speakerphone before. He's never had two people want to talk to him at once.

 

“Hey, morning?”

 

“A good morning to you, as well,” Bane answers seriously. “It is good to hear your voice.”

 

“You, too.” John says it quickly, surprised by how much he means it. “Is your uhm... 'stressful situation' better?”

 

There's silence on the line before Bane answers. “It is... still pressing, but out of our hands, for now.”

 

“I'm sorry, I could go—”

 

“Nonsense,” Barsad's voice cuts in. “We can do nothing. Let us at least have the pleasure of your voice.”

 

“Pleasure, huh?” That gets a laugh out of John. His fingers busy themselves straightening a few already straight piles of paper on Rachel's desk.

 

“Pleasure,” Barsad repeats. “In fact, it is good you have called. Bruce Wayne's birthday is tomorrow. Will you attend his party with us?”

 

John's brows arch up in surprise. He's met Bruce, but the idea of going to 'billionaire Bruce Wayne's birthday party', well, that's crazy.

 

What the fuck would he even get him as a gift?

 

“I uhm... I want to see you again, but I don't think I'd really... fit.”

 

“Good. Neither will we. In fact, Bane will not be in the crowd, at all. We thought you and I might put in our face time, and then we will spend the evening in a more secluded corner of the mansion, away from the crowds.”

 

“That sounds a hell of a lot better.” John is relieved. He agrees, finds himself writing down times and details and being told about a dozen times that no, he certainly does not have to bring Bruce a gift. Rachel is back in the office by the time he hangs up. The look on his face makes her smile as she sets down a folder.

 

“Good lunch?”

 

John glances down at the scrap of paper in his hands.

 

“Maybe?”

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

“You're lucky you called me. I can't imagine what a hospital would have done with him.” Fox shakes his head as they are all gathered around him, his thumb depressing a button to inject a concoction into Bruce's arm. Talia is watching with sharp eyes, her face pinched with worry. “Or if you'd left him alone to try and work it out of his system by himself.”

 

“This will cure him?”

 

“It's everything I could do. I think it will neutralize the chemical, but I can't make any promises, Ms. Talia.” Fox pushes himself up to stand slowly. His worn face is softer, sympathetic, when he looks to her, kind and genuine enough that it seems to make the tightness in Talia's ease, if only by a fraction. “This, whatever this is, and believe me, I'm sure I wouldn't like to know what it is, it was designed to be cruel and effective. I'm not sure if it's lethal, but I'm also not sure a person would ever be the same after being exposed to it for too long...”

 

“Was this 'too long'?” she asks tensely, her small frame jumping as Fox reaches to take her hands in his own. She needs sleep. She never jumps, she is a rock, and Bane hates to see it.

 

“No. As long as there are no complications, he should be just fine. In fact, I'd like to be here when he wakes up, give him a strong piece of my mind for making an old man like me get up so late in the night.”

 

“That makes two of us,” Alfred announces as he steps into the room, holding a tray of coffee. Barsad had finally been the one to tell him, early in the morning, explained it. He had then told Bane his immense regret for being the one to do so, that he was not sure he had ever received such a polite and effective scolding and that he may feel guilt for years to come.

 

Bane is... relieved that it was not him to deliver the news.

 

“We'll take him to school together, Alfred.” Mr. Fox says it with a smile stretching over his lips, taking a cup of coffee from the tray with a polite thank you.

 

“May we speak with you?” Bane asks it politely, and though he is certain Talia wishes to hear, she has enough on her mind. Fox steps out into the hall with Bane, instead, and he is far from surprised when Barsad follows.

 

“How long would it take you to synthesize more of this antidote?” Bane asks, as he looks down at Fox. The underlying thought of 'if it works' is not spoken.

 

“You folks planning on partying with more weaponized hallucinogens?”

 

Barsad jerks his thumb towards the door. “You know how the billionaire playboy crowd can be.”

 

It draws a dry laugh from Fox, who shakes his head, after. “What I gave him... It should inoculate him against a repeat performance... I may have synthesized enough for several more doses.”

 

Bane hums quietly in approval as he takes a cylinder of vials from Fox's hands. “You are very forward thinking. Thank you, Mr. Fox, but I am afraid we may need much more than several, if things do not go as well as we hope. You will be needed to...” He pauses, knowing that Mr. Fox is a wise man, and wishes to know as little as possible while still proving them a service.

 

“I'll get right on it, see what I can do, Mr. Bane. I better get started—”

 

“He is awake!” Talia calls out, interrupting their brief discussion, but it is more than welcome. They are back in the room in time to see Bruce coughing, rubbing his hands over his face as Talia's fingers touch his shoulder.

 

“Good morning, Master Bruce.” Alfred's voice is clipped as he holds out a glass of water for him.

 

“Berate later.” Bane says it in a clipped tone as Bruce coughs and takes careful sips of water. “We need information now.”

 

Bruce's voice is raspy when he speaks, from his shouts and perhaps smoke damage. Barsad cannot help but note that it is closer to the voice he uses for his alternate persona. “It's an aerosol,” he says as he sits up slowly. “Faster than when we breathed in the smoke. It feels—” he stops, shaking his head. “It's completely different. I felt like I'd lost my mind, like I'd lost everything.”

 

“If my father has managed to produce this in large quantities... has made it possible to disperse into the air, then we are in trouble. We must stop him before he is able to administer it on a wide-scale, or there may be nothing we can do to keep Gotham intact.”

 

“Is there nothing else you learned from this encounter, Bruce?” Bane's brows knit together. They had been counting on information, something solid to follow.

 

“He wasn't there. It was someone else, a couple of hired guys, no one I recognized from the League.”

 

“That could mean they have not arrived, yet,” Barsad says. “They may be waiting. It is harder for us to look for them when they are not here, and we know none of their associates.”

 

“I got a good look at one of them. I can put together a profile of his face, run it through our sources.” He starts to stand. Talia clicks her tongue and pushes him down easily.

 

“You will do it from _here_. You need rest, and you have proven you are not to be allowed out of our sight.”

 

“And there is your birthday to consider,” Alfred speaks up. “Guests and arrangements have been made—”

 

“I'm not having a _party_ , Alfred.”

 

“It is not merely a party.” Alfred sets the tray down sharply. “Think, Master Bruce. These people. You have said they thrive on theatrics. They are aware that you are all alive, and here, and that you are an obstacle. Surely they will take advantage of the fact that you are guaranteed to be under this roof during your party.”

 

“You think whatever they plan will come to fruition, tomorrow?” Bane realizes. He must commend Alfred on the thought. Their former leader would no doubt find it very fitting, the birthday of Gotham's returned prince as the date for its reckoning.

 

“I would not be surprised,” Alfred says, and with the looks exchanged between them all, it is clear they are in agreement.

 

“You can't expect me to stay here, then.”

 

“It makes sense, does it not?” Talia says suddenly. “We will remain here, be the decoys, while our brothers fight.”

 

“Fight where?” Bruce is agitated, the idea of sitting out clearly does not settle well with him. Bane cannot blame him, but now is not the time to argue. “We don't even know where they'll be! They could be everywhere!”

 

“And we will find _out_ , Bruce.” Barsad hisses it out, his patience snapping. “If you had told us where you were going, if you had allowed us to aide you, then perhaps you would be _joining_ us in it, or perhaps we would have more information, now.”

 

“ _Stop_ fighting.” Talia's delicate hand cuts through the air as though she is ready to sever their heads from their bodies. “This is exactly what my father would wish. We _will_ be here, Bruce, but I doubt we will simply be decoys. Whatever is happening, my father will send someone to dispatch us.”

 

“You mean me.”

 

“I mean us.” She is not a fool. She has known since the beginning that whatever ties her father has had with her, blood or not, he will surely slit her throat as he would any other in the way of what he perceives as true justice. “We will be prepared for them. We will all be inoculated against the toxin, and we will fight here. Our brothers will fight where they are needed.”

 

“ _If_ we can find out where we are needed.” Bane does not need to say out loud that things are beginning to look very dismal indeed.

 

____________________

 

“John? John?” Rachel's voice sounds scratchy, but it's probably just John's brain protesting being woken up by the surprise ring of the phone. It's at least half an hour before his alarm should be going off, and his brain is well aware of that fact.

 

“Rachel, hey? What's wrong?” Sleepy or not, there's anger there. John would know.

 

“It's Falcone. They're having him transported to Arkham, and want to have him plead insanity.”

 

That has John sitting up with a curse, rubbing his hand over his face. “Are you fucking kidding me? That's fucking crazy. I mean, he's _not_ fucking crazy.” Fucking bullshit. John had been just as thrilled as Rachel at the idea of actually getting Falcone off the streets. The crime and drugs he flooded the city with were suffocating. “Can they even do that?”  
  
“They can try. I'm not going to let them. With Frank gone, I have to take the reins on this one. I'm going down to there to see him, right away. I just wanted to tell you that you don't have to come in today, until later. I'll probably be there most of the day. The last thing they're going to want to see is me.” Her voice resonates with a fiery sort of determination, and he can't help but picture her dragging Falcone back behind bars, herself. Then he can't help but picture a bullet through her back, because Rachel is an idealist while John is a realist.

 

“I'll come with you.”

 

“Oh, you don't have to do that. That's not part of your job, John.”  
  
“Sure it is,” he argues quickly, forcing a smile into his voice when he doesn't feel it, not wanting her to turn it down. “Come on, I'll just throw on some clothes, and you can meet me in the lobby.” He doesn't let her argue, he just hangs up and starts dressing.

 

Bruce's birthday party...

 

He shakes his head quickly. This shouldn't take all day, and if it does, they'll understand. They've been busy with work. There's no reason he can't be, too, and he knows Rachel knows about it. Maybe, _maybe,_ after a long day at work together, she'd invited him over for wine, and he'd sort of let some of the beans spill about Bane and Barsad, that they were his strings, and that they were living at Wayne Manor.

 

“ _You mean you weren't even curious, before they found you?” She laughs and pours more wine into his glass. She'd switched him over to a sweeter, white wine after she'd seen the pretty damn comical face he'd made over a red. It wasn't his fault he'd never had wine, before. Apparently, it was an 'acquired taste', so really, it wasn't just him, and she could have warned him. “Then they just showed up and they're, what, living with Bruce Wayne? It's a little mysteriously romantic, don't you think?” She leans in teasingly as she says it, and John feels like a kid when she pulls lightly at the collar to his shirt._

 

“ _My life isn't a cheesy romance novel, Rachel.” He laughs, though, and stares down into his glass. “And I was more scared shitless. I still am... I never really wanted to find them. Things went bad, with my parents, and... Well, I decided I didn't need them.” He shakes his head. He still doesn't need them. He's never bought into that... But, well, he'd really maybe like to have them. He sorta wants them._

 

“ _What about you?” He can't help but ask. He's never asked before, not a single soul. Not only has he just usually not wanted to know, but asking also meant you got asked about yours, in return, which was something John never wanted. Now, he kind of does, though. Rachel's never talked about it before, even if sometimes he's seen her glance down at her hand thoughtfully._

 

“ _Me? Oh, wow. Uhm...” She laughs a little, her finger trailing over the edge of her wine glass. “I actually know who my string is.”_

 

“ _Yeah?” He settles back into his chair. There's an almost whimsical smile lighting Rachel's lips. It's so much different from what he sees at the office that it makes him smile with her. “You don't talk about them... are they…?”_

 

“ _Oh, no, no, they're alive...” She laughs. “He's actually an attorney, too. He works in our office. You've seen him. Harvey Dent.”_

 

“ _Harvey Dent?” He almost chokes on his wine. “That hotshot?” John has barely seen him, and he seems like a good guy, kind of a little crazy, maybe, with his ideals, but then there’s Rachel. Maybe there was something to that._

 

“ _Mhhm.” She hums out a little laugh. “He knows, too, of course. It's just... Well, we decided we want to wait, enjoy our lives a little more, before we get too deeply intertwined. We both have things that are important to us, now, so much casework. I told him I wanted to wait.”_

 

“ _And he was ok with that?”_

 

“ _He has a really strong pout face,” Rachel says with a fond look, “but yes. I told him we'll be co-workers for now, and when things settle a little, we'll take it from there.”_

 

The entire conversation was new territory for him, but it explained how he knew Bruce, and when she mentioned being invited to Bruce's party, John was glad he was going to know more than just Bruce and Barsad there. He's already aware Bane isn't going to make any appearance in the crowd. He's found out quickly enough that that just isn't his thing. He'll work it out so both him and Rachel get there, tonight. Besides, this shouldn't take all day.

 

\------

 

It might just take all day. John isn't exactly used to being at an asylum, but he does know when they're getting the run around, and they've been getting it for the past few hours. He's glad he grabbed breakfast for them both, because it is now well past lunch, and they haven't even gotten past the front doors. Apparently, there's a lot of strings to pull when you don't _want_ someone to be seen, and while Rachel's boss might have gotten in faster... Rachel is just going to have to do.

 

He's staring at the clock ticking down on the wall, now. Only a couple of hours until Bruce's birthday party, and it sure doesn't look like they're getting in anytime soon. He tries to calculate in his head how much time it might take to get from here to hom—the apartment, so that they could both a change, and then for them both to get to the manor. It's not looking good.

 

And from the pinched expression on Rachel's face as she leaves the front desk again, it's about to get worse.

 

“Now they're saying they won't let me speak to him without seeing Doctor Crane. He'll be 'with patients for the next hour or so, wouldn't it be better if you just come back tomorrow'?” Her voice takes on a falsely pleasant affect as she mimics the nurse at the front desk.

 

“A few hours, huh?” He won't even ask if maybe the nurse is right. As tempting as it is, the sooner they can see Falcone the better. Rachel had already talked his ear off on the way up on how much 'prepping' they could be giving Falcone, to show him just how to act to get an insanity plea for the jury. It needs to be today, and he's not going to be leaving Rachel alone in the 'nuthouse' anytime soon. He's heard too many bad stories, growing up, about this place, about people disappearing and never being heard from again, not even 'just crazies', regular people who maybe knew a little too much about the wrong things. He's staying, even if that means bailing...

 

He snorts a little at how much he feels like Cinderella about to miss the ball.

 

When did he become so readable? Rachel is looking at him, a small sympathetic smile on her face. She knows he's not leaving, even if she offers to let him. “Do you want to call them?”

 

“Is it that bad?” He winces, and she laughs a little as she digs out her cellphone. She already knows that he's the 0.01% of the population that doesn't have a cellphone, but she's never asked why. Just one more reason to like her.

 

“No, no, I feel bad about it, too. Will you let Bruce know for me, too?”

 

“Sure.” He gratefully takes her phone and ducks into an alcove so that he can get a little peace from all of the orderlies walking around and staring at them both. He almost feels bad leaving her alone in this place, for even a second.

 

Still. He finds himself grabbing the phone and punching in their number. A quick hello to Alfred has him put through to Barsad almost immediately.

 

“Hey, uhm, I'm really sorry, but something's come up. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to make it tonight.”

 


	27. Chapter 27

Barsad frowns at the sudden news. It is not that he cares about John missing this party, or even that they had been looking forward to see him. It was that they all had their suspicions for what tonight might hold, and John being there, sequestered somewhere in the mansion, meant that they would know where he is, that he is _safe_.

 

“What has 'come up'? Surely it can wait.” He tries to keep his tone friendly, disappointed, not worried. There will be a time and a place to discuss their... missions… with John one day, but now, over the phone, is certainly not that time.

 

This reeks of a bad omen, and Barsad's fingers curl tightly around the phone.

 

“It's work. I've been working with a friend of Bruce's, Rachel Dawes. She's an ADA, and her boss is gone, so she's stuck trying to keep Falcone from pleading insanity, but they won't let us in to see him at Arkham, and it's, uh, well, it's complicated.” John rushes through the entire explanation so fast that it takes Barsad a moment to catch up. “I'm not sure I'll make it back in time. I'm not trying to make an excuse, I... I kind of want to see you.”

 

“And we want to see you,” Barsad answers back immediately, nearly plucking at his string, but remembering his promise.

 

“I'll try to g—Hey—” John's voice trails off and sounds distant, as though he has let the phone drop from his ear. A muffled 'Rachel?' can be heard, faintly, as Barsad's brow furrows. He presses the phone more tightly against his ear, his other hand coming up to block the other, to help drown out any background noise.

 

“What do you mean? When did she go in? I was ju—Well, I need to go in, too!” The last part is nearly shouted into Barsad's ear as it is obvious the phone is suddenly back against John's. “Barsad? I'm sorry, I have to go.”

 

“John—” He is certain even John's name goes unheard, as the phone gives off a sudden dial tone.

 

Nothing about this sits well with Barsad. Nothing.

 

The phone is nearly slammed down onto its receiver as Barsad stalks out of the kitchen.

 

“Something we should be worried about, Master Barsad?”

 

The 'master' nearly make's Barsad's lip twitch, despite the circumstance. Alfred has only taken to saying it as he knows how much Barsad truly hates it. The old man's subtle sarcasm rivals his own, and in most cases, it is a delight.

 

“I hope not. Are they in Bruce's room?”

 

“Indeed they are, and I will be heading down to the cave for a miserable evening in the dank since none of you seem to think me capable of taking care of a few possible terrorists.”

 

Barsad laughs sharply. Perhaps Alfred could indeed dissemble the League of Shadows on his own, but they have all agreed that if they are to plan an attack at the mansion, it will be best for Alfred to be safe in the cave, below. It is where they had planned on sending John, as well, if things went terribly wrong.

 

“You will survive with not even a cold, I'm certain. Have a safe, uneventful night, Alfred.” It is the kindest thing he can wish for as he walks down the hall to Bruce's bedroom. There, he finds his makeshift family. Pillows have been piled around Bruce's bed, and Talia settles onto them, staring at a computer with Bruce. Bane has pulled over a thick armchair, watching the screen with the same level of intent as the others.

 

Talia notices his entry, and glances up.

 

“Since he is forbidden from leaving his bed, I have been working with Bruce, looking through databases of doctors and chemists in Gotham. He feels that the man who dosed him was my father's connection to the city. Only a few cross reference. We are looking up sound files and videos of them at conferences to see if Bruce recognizes their voice,” she explains, and it is a promising notion, but not one Barsad is focused on, at the moment.

 

“John will not be here, tonight. He is in Arkham Asylum, of all places, with Rachel.”

 

Bruce looks up sharply. “Arkham? Why?”

 

“It is for her work. They have been attempting to get inside all day, but they have been blocked at every turn, it seems.” Barsad has already felt uneasy, but the worried expressions he can see on his family's faces only deepen his own.

 

“At least half of the doctors we are investigating have found employment at that asylum,” Bane says, his voice tight as his fingers reach to twist in the blankets laid over the edge of the bed. “We suspect that much of Ra's’ plans center there. It is a good hiding place for misdeeds. We will go there now,” Bane decides, and Barsad could not agree more.

 

“Do you think that is wise?” Talia asks as she places a hand over Bane's. “We are certain that father's plans will culminate, tonight. We are stronger together.”

 

Bane squeezes her hand. “We are, but we will be together. We will use the communication devices. We will report in, continuously. You and Bruce will remain here, for now, prepare for your father's inevitable visit.”

 

“Hopefully, we will not take long gathering John.”

 

“An—”

 

“And Rachel,” Barsad interrupts Bruce with a curt nod. “We will see that she is safe, as well. But I will not go unarmed, Bruce. You know where my strengths lie. If you wish them to truly be safe, you will give me what I need to be certain it happens.” There is a stormy cloud in Bruce's eyes, a struggle. Barsad knows his morals, but they simply have no time for them. “If she dies when I could have saved he—”

 

“The cabinet, in the dining room,” Bruce interrupts him this time. “Take the tumbler. Don't...”

 

“I will not use it unless necessary.” Barsad gives his word, and he will keep it to a point, but at the first sign of true risk, he will do what is needed to protect those he holds dear. “We will be back with them.” He looks to Bane who is out of his chair, his fingers pulling at the string on his finger. Barsad wishes he could do the same, but he does not believe in breaking promises. He settles on plucking only Bane's.

 

“Let’s go.”

 

____________________

 

Punching a nurse would be wrong. Really, really wrong. John has to remind himself of that, as he grits his teeth. He shouldn't have made that phone call. Gone for less than five minutes, and Rachel disappears into the back.

 

“I'm _sorry_ , sir. You can't go back there.” The nurse repeats the phrase for the fifth time, like it is new news.

 

John won't punch him. He won't, but his fist does grip a little tighter, nails biting into his palm enough to force him to focus as _he_ repeats himself for the fifth time. “I told you, already. I work for Rachel Dawes. Rachel Dawes, ADA, who _just_ went back there, and I need to fu—I need to catch up with her.”

 

“Sir, you cannot go back there without an escort.”

  
“Then fucking escort me!”

 

“I can't jus—”

 

He won't punch him. But he might shove him. Just a little. Just enough to push him right into an orderly walking by, rolling a cart piled high with little white pill cups. Their bodies slam together, and John watches as the metal cart clatters to the ground, a confetti of pills raining down onto the floor and scattering every which way, as he shoves past the double doors that he's been blocked off from all day.

 

He ignores the shouting, straightens his back, and walks like he belongs there. It's something he's been practicing, actually. Walk like he belongs at city hall during his job, walk like he belongs in one of the most expensive apartments in Gotham, possibly the world, when he walks to the penthouse elevator after work. John had no idea it would come in handy. He can hear the commotion behind the double doors fading in the distance, and so far no one has grabbed him as he focuses on staring straight ahead, sweeping the area for Rachel, and trying not to notice how much this place looks like a maze, and how wrong it feels to be there. The outside had been bad, but there's a twinge to the air, here, that is more than the scent of too much bleach. It just feels _wrong_ , like the entire building is sick, like the madness in the halls has soaked into the mortar and brick and pipe over the years, until the asylum itself is as mad as the patients it keeps locked away.

 

John's breath hitches in his lungs, and he forces himself to cough, to suck in another lungful, and purge all of those fucking thoughts from his head. He just needs to find Rachel. Turning the corner puts him there. She's standing outside of a row of cells, and John won't admit the shiver of cool relief that runs through him at the sight of her.

 

“John, sorry, I had to get in while I could,” Rachel apologizes, sparing him a glance as she stares into a cell.

 

“Nah, it's ok. Believe me, I know how hard it can be to get in here.” He laughs a little dryly, not really feeling it, especially as it seems an orderly has finally recognized that neither of them are supposed to be here.

 

“Excuse me, you have to—”

 

Rachel turns sharply, calmly, ready to release the full order of the law onto the orderly's head, but before she can, another door opens and a man steps forward. He's lacking the scrubs, in fact, he's well-polished and put together. John doesn't like him, not just from his looks, but from the way Rachel's mouth draws into a tight line at the sight of him. This must be Doctor Crane.

 

Dr. Crane nods to the orderly as one of his slender fingers runs against the corner of his glasses, straightening them. “That will be all, thank you.” His head inclines slightly towards Rachel, while John is completely ignored.  
  
“Ms. Dawes, this is most irregular. I have nothing to add to the report I filed with the judge.”

 

John listens to them argue as he steps closer to the cell Rachel had been looking into. He hadn't really known what Falcone looks like, but this isn’t what he had in mind. The man in there is strapped to a chair, a line of drool running out of the corner of his mouth, and sweat soaking his clothing. The word ‘scarecrow’ can be heard as a low mutter, again and again.

 

It's more than creepy, and John is wondering if maybe Dr. Crane is right, after all, because John isn't a doctor, but Falcone looks pretty fucking nuts to him. He falls into pace with Rachel, to the elevator. She's not happy. She wants bloodwork, and her own tests. It's not hard to figure out that she thinks Crane is doping up Falcone with something, to get him off prison time, but John thinks of the drooling mess back in that cell, and he doesn't think Crane is doing Falcone _any_ favors. Maybe just the opposite.

 

“First thing tomorrow, then,” Crane agrees to the testing.

 

“Tonight. I've already paged Dr. Lehmann, at Country General,” Rachel seals both of their fates for the evening. It looks like no party, but he knows she wouldn't be doing it if she didn't think it was vital. So it only stings a little.

 

“As you wish.” Crane's voice is clipped, annoyed, but he steps into the elevator with them. He seems to finally notice John, then. His blue eyes feel almost mechanical, like he is scanning John's body, filing away any information he needs for later, neat and efficient and entirely creepy. He doesn't seem to like or dislike what he sees, rather John is immediately disregarded, after the quick inspection.

 

_Where are they going?_

 

John is suddenly tense in the cramped elevator. They'd taken a staircase to get up into the building, so he hadn't given much thought to an elevator, but it feels like they're going down _too_ far. The basement? The air smells damper down here, an earthier scent hitting his nose when the door opens. Why? His fists clench. He's already shoved a nurse, now he might need to punch a doctor. Nothing about this feels right. It feels like that night on the train, again. His eyes catch Rachel's, and she's too focused on the case, on Falcone. She doesn't see it.

 

“This way, please. There's something I think you should see,” Crane says calmly as they leave the elevator. John wants to grab Rachel's arm and run, but to where?

 

At the sight of the heavily barred door, John figures anywhere is better than this. He reaches for her as Crane shoves the wooden bar up. “Rach—”

 

“This is where we make the medicine,” Crane interrupts him calmly. John's stomach lurches as he follows Rachel to grab her and make a run for it.

 

“Perhaps you should have some. Clear your head.”

 

His feet feel frozen to the floor, though, by what he's seeing. Inmates? Workers? They're wearing the same jumpsuit as Falcone, but with masks over their faces, and there's so many of them, and he doesn't take the time to figure out what's going on. Neither does Rachel. She's grabbing his hand, and they turn to start to run back to the elevator.

 

John's phone is in his hands as the elevator closes, and Rachel slams her hands on the buttons to make it go back up to some form of sanity, upstairs. Nothing's moving. The door is slowly opening, and 911 is taking fucking forever to connect.

 

There's mist in his face… spray? It's bitter, coating his throat and tongue. Something… a poison? Chemical attack? It makes the hall warp in front of him, the walls melting down and pooling at his feet as Rachel's hand is torn from his. He can hear screaming. It matches his own.

 

 


	28. Chapter 28

Barsad has deemed the use of his sidearm _very_ necessary, very early on. The safety is off, and he holds it out in front of him, years of training keeping his stance as Bane walks behind him. On their arrival, there had been chaos, outside of the building. Alarms going off. Orderlies, nurses, doctors, all rushing through the different emergency exits. Most of the patients were left trapped inside. He could see them, now, in their cells. Some sobbing, others pacing, laughing. Given the brief glance at their conditions, he could hardly blame them for their glee over the chaos. It only gave Barsad a deeper loathing for the medical profession.

 

At least it had made it simpler to enter the building.

 

“Someone called 911. It came over the dispatch.” Talia's voice is in his ear over the com. “There is no word yet, on the incident, but they are sending many police vehicles.”

 

“It has the workers here spooked,” Bane answers back. “Rats jumping ship, I believe it is call—”

  
Barsad shoves his weight at him, enough to have him slam into the wall, and shift him out of the way of the steady stream of bullets obliterated the wall beside them in a stream of broken stone and dust. Barsad bites his cheek, listening carefully for the sound of a clip ending, turning the corner of the hall and running down it. There is little time to revel in the sudden panicked struggling he can hear as whatever poor bastard around the corner desperately attempts to reload in time.

  
A single bullet. A lesson in _wastefulness._ Barsad delivers it to his forehead, and watches the blood and brain paint the stone wall before he pockets the man's sidearm for his own.

 

“Bruce will be disappointed.”

 

“He is simply _sleeping_ ,” Barsad assures him seriously. “Come. There is something down this hall they must not want us to see.”

 

____________________

 

“Rachel? RACHEL!” John can't hear her. She'd just been there. He let her go. He shouldn't have let her go. He can hear shouting, and gunshots, but he can't hear her, at all. Even if he did, he wouldn't be sure if she was real. He let her go, and what if she doesn’t exist, anymore? What if no one existed, anymore? What if he's the only one left in this warped hazy cloud? Hell was here with him in this fucking hallway. Hell was in a hallway. Who fucking knows? No one knows, no one exists, but he needs someone else to exist beyond him. They have to.

  
It's an amazing thing, a real fucking life changer, to realize that he doesn't want to die alone. When did that happen? Was he dying, now? It has to be the chemicals. But he doesn't. Oh god, he doesn't want to die here, and he doesn't want to be lonely. He wants to exist, and he wants Rachel to exist. He needs all of them to exist, and hell is in a hallway.

 

Hell is in a hallway.

 

The idea sticks in his brain on loop. Caught, an earworm with no other notes or words, just the click of a stuck record as it sticks, but it doesn't jump to anything else. Hell is in a hallway. John doesn't exist. The fingers scrabbling across the cold ceramic floor don't exist, trying to crawl, trying to escape his torso. Tearing nails, pain he can see but can't feel over the terror in his brain.

 

There are things skittering close by, everywhere, creeping closer and closer. He's nearly relieved, because there's something else in hell. Something exists. But they're so close. Nails prick and scrape into his skin. They stretch his jaw with prying hands, and try to crawl inside of him. Only his screaming keeps them outside.

 

He closes his eyes tight when they try to scrape open his eyelids. Find some way inside of him. Hell is in a hallway, and he can hear their excited breaths. They'll find a way in. His hands smack around, wet, warm. They push, but they go through. Things can touch him, but John can't touch them. The only thing his fingers land on is thin, red string, and he pulls it. Again and again, as he feels another scream rattling and catching in his chest.

 

____________________

 

Barsad's hyper-focus breaks in a second, and the shot he had perfectly aimed goes wild, sinking into the thick stone of the wall, and sending debris spraying through the air. At first, he thinks that perhaps he must have simply been mistaken. They have run into _several_ friendly personnel in this hall, each one's artillery heavier than the last. It is clear they are guarding something that is _definitely_ worth their attention.

 

It is there, again. He can feel it suddenly, what he has not felt from that string since he was only a small boy. These are not curious, playful vibrations around his pinky, though. They are something desperate, rough, nearly enough to make his hand feel the need to jerk forward.

 

John.   
  
He slides smoothly behind a pillar and ducks down. His fingers snap up to his communicator. He lost sight of Bane in a brawl, two hallways ago. “Do you fee—” He does not expect a response. He knows Bane must be too busy for it. Now... There is only the problem that he does not know where to look. “John. Something is wrong with him. We must find him. There. There is an elevator,” he muses out loud. “This must be what they were attempting to protect.” But there are so many floors. Time is of the essence. Where would they even begin?

 

Bane emerges from behind him. There is blood that he flicks from his fingers. “I asked _politely_. We are to go down.”

 

“So practical, brother.” Barsad must smile despite the situation. He clears the small elevator before ushering Bane inside, descending.

 

____________________

 

“John? John!” The shouting makes his body jerk. His eyes snap open before can think to close them shut. To keep things out. They're here. They existed. Everything and nothing is ok, and he jerks wildly as his body is suddenly weightless.

 

“He is heavier than he looks.”

 

“Shh, John. Breathe.”

 

That strange mask. John stares into it, in awe, mesmerized. It's almost a comfort, until it starts to drip off his face, puddling down onto the seat below them. Flesh comes next, muscle, brain leaking out, until there are only strips of flesh clinging to bone, tendons snapping and working as the face over him makes strange guttural noises that he can barely hear over the sharp dig of sirens and gunfire cutting into his ear drums.

 

“Do you know where Rachel is?”

 

Rachel? He jerks as if on strings. “Rachel!”

 

“Shh, we will find her. Breathe, John.”

 

John is breathing. The world is moving. He's moving, but his feet won't work. He needs to find Rachel.

 

“I have her!”

 

“We need to get them from here, without the police. They'll try to stop us, and time cannot be wasted.”

 

“Not to worry. Bruce has informed me he will be using his winged friends for the perfect distraction. Something terribly showy, no doubt.”

 

John is still moving. Being shifted, prodded. Faces are staring at him, and he can hear shrieking in the air. Bats? He doesn't know. He just knows he isn't in the hallway, anymore, and they're moving. They're moving so fast, as time ebbs around him, flowing and dimming, until he's being laid out on a cold surface.

 

Is he back where he started? Back in the hallway? His teeth snap down, threatening to bite his tongue in two as he thrashes out.

 

"Rachel! John!" Both names are being shouted, and he's pretty sure one of those names is his, pretty sure, anyway. It's hard to see, there's red cobwebs in his eyes, marbling every surface, cocooning him even as he thrashes around, desperately. "Hold on, John." There's a hand grasping his shoulder, huge and scorching hot, blistering his skin as something stabs into him. He's trying to gulp down air so fast that he's choking on it.

 

"John, John, breathe slowly." The voice is closer, and he tries to swing his arms toward it, not sure if he's trying to attack it or pull it closer.

 

____________________

 

Alfred pulls the hypodermic from John's arm. It had taken Bane pinning John's body to the table with most of his weight and Barsad keeping him still to be able to administer the antidote.

 

"He has the strength of an ox," Barsad grunts when John goes still finally, his fingers grasping as he dares to gently stroke the sweat-damp locks from his hair.

 

"It should work quickly, through both of them," Alfred notes, and Bane spares a glance over towards the woman across from them. Talia and Bruce are crowded over her.

 

"I should have gone with you."

 

"You were practically an invalid," Talia admonishes. "There was nothing you could have done to change this, nothing."

 

Bane knows that her words are meant for all of them. It is a hard thing to accept, though. He can easily remember his own terror from his initiation, and how much more potent must this chemical be? He cannot imagine the hell that has soaked into John's brain. Only now is the cloud of it leaving his eyes.

 

"Bane?" The word is croaked out.

 

"I am here, we are here," Bane assures him, his tone gentle as he reaches for his hand. He feels it grabbed too tightly. He can see how John's nails have splintered and snapped on several fingers, but he does not seem to feel the pain, now, as he squints up at Bane. He seems relieved.

 

“Your face. It's back.”

 

“It was gone?” Bane asks, not truly to learn an answer, but merely to keep John talking. His own relief comes in hearing John's voice, strained and cracking, but there, no longer a broken scream.

 

“Yeah.” John's tongue dips out, licking over cracked lips. “Yeah. I'm glad it's back.”

 

“We are glad _you_ are back, John.” Barsad has a damp cloth, is wiping sweat from John's brow as the younger man swallows roughly.

 

“What was happening down there?” Talia draws his attention from John, her hand touching between his shoulders. It reminds him that there are even bigger things at stake, tonight.

 

“They were putting shit in the water,” John mumbles out quietly. “Bad shit, I think. Like the stuff they used on us. Where's Rachel?”

 

“Here,” Bruce says softly. “I gave her a sedative.”

 

“You gave her _more_ drugs?” John sits up with a low groan, as if every bone in his body aches. “You can't just fucking do that.”

 

“She'll recover faster. You both will—”

 

“If he does not want a sedative, he does not need to take one,” Barsad interrupts seriously. “There are more important things, now. “If the drugs are in Gotham's water supply, this city will soon be tearing itself apart.”

 

“We'll give Rachel what antidote we have left, to give to Gordon. They'll need to put it into mass production as soon as they can,” Bruce says as he settles the vials with Rachel.

 

“It is far too late for that—unless....” Talia purses her lips. Her own fingers reach to grip Bruce's wrist, squeezing it, before she turns to John. “I know you are ill, John, but please think. How did they give you the poison? An injection? A drink?”

 

John shakes his head, clearly woozy just from sitting. “In the face,” he mutters, only stopping himself from rubbing a hand over his mouth when he sees the state of his hands.

 

“A smoke, a spray?”

 

“Spray.”

 

Talia taps her fingers against her lips, a move Bane knows always means she is deep in thought. “It was the same for Bruce. And the initiation. It is breathed in. We have not seen it yet affect someone though a drink. In the water, what good does it do? It must be dispersed some other way. Which means we need more information... Which means we still have a party to attend, Bruce.”

____________________

 

John's head is spinning as he watches Alfred helping Barsad carry Rachel off from wherever they are now. Where _are_ they is probably a good question, but one he's putting aside, for now. There's already so much confusion, and the pounding in his head sure isn't helping it.

 

Whatever's going on, those drugs, Arkham, Dr. Crane, hell, maybe even Falcone, it seems like it's all connected together, and it sounds like they know about it. It sounds like _all_ of them know about it. Maybe they've been trying to stop it, maybe that's where the whole batman thing came about, to begin with, but what he does know, now, is that if what they're saying is right, if this can get to the entire city, then they need to stop it soon, or else Gotham is going to be torn apart.

 

“Bane.” He grabs for his thick forearm as he forces himself to sit up. “I don't know everything going on, but let me help.”

 

“There is much going on.” Bane's voice has always sounded serious, but now it seems grim, even as he feels him wiping the blood and dirt from John’s hands with a clean towel. “I do not mean to sound as if I am belittling you, but I am truly not certain how you can help.”

 

“Let him come to the party, still.” Talia is close by. Her hand feels warm on his cheek, and he doesn't know her as well, but the gesture seems surprisingly tender. “It will be starting now, but we have time to clean him up. Give him a communicator, have him be an extra set of eyes during the party.”

 

Bane's brows furrow together. It's obvious he doesn't like the idea, but if this can help Gotham, he's not going to argue about it. “Yeah. I want to. I'll be fine, Bane.”

 

“Do you know how to fire a gun?”

 

“I will make certain he has a knife,” Talia assures Bane. “And we will fill him in on what we can, in such short time. You must have many questions.”  
  
“More than a couple, yeah. I mean I already know about Bruce being batman.”

 

Bruce's eyebrows shoot up in quiet surprise, and Talia laughs softly, delighted. “I told you, it is so obvious. Come with me, John. You must clean up quickly.”

 

____________________

 

Bane does not like this, and Barsad shares his displeasure the moment he has finished seeing Rachel out to the car.

 

“It is not that I question his strength, but he is completely untrained. It is utter foolishness to have him in a crowd of strangers.”

 

“I know.” Bane is leaning against their bedroom door as he watches Barsad scramble into a suit, wiping off soot and dirt from his face and hands as he goes. There is no time for anything else. “But he is our string, part of our soul, and fate would never give us another who was content merely to stay downstairs where it is safe, even if it would be less worrying, now.”

 

“We could knock him out, merely a light tap to the back of the head,” Barsad suggests helpfully, and Bane knows he is only kidding if Bane does not agree with him.

 

“Keep him close to you. At least _you_ will be able to see him.”

 

“When we have completed this, if we are not all dead,” Barsad begins as he steps into Bane's space, pressing a kiss to coils of his mask, “there will be no more need to keep a low profile.”

 

“No _need_ , no, but it is—”

 

“Less scary?”

 

Bane shoots him a slightly disgruntled look. “I do not wish to be a spectacle.”

 

“Only until Gotham has finished gawking over what strange company Bruce Wayne keeps. Then it will likely become haute couture, in six months’ time.”

 

“I do not know what that means, but it sounds terrible.”

 

“It means people will wear likenesses of it, simply to be fashionable.”

 

“It is as I feared, then.” Bane's frown deepens while Barsad laughs softly and kisses him again.

 

“Simply think about it, brother. You would be able to explore with both of us. Let John show us the good things he sees in Gotham, and in turn, we will show him the rest of the world. He has seen none of it.”

 

“That does not sound so terrible. If we live.”  
  
“If we live, indeed.”

 

 

 


	29. Chapter 29

It is big on you.” Barsad reaches to tug lightly on John's jacket sleeve. He still looks rather handsome, and Barsad is tempted to tell him so, but now is not truly the time.

“Yeah, the stuff I've been stealing at the penthouse is back from when Bruce was younger. Fits a lot better.” John is speaking to him, but his eyes are sweeping across the room. The champagne glass he holds in his hand is untouched. “Talia's been filling me in.”

“I hope you are not upset at us keeping it from you.”

“No. Well, yeah, but I get it. It's a lot to get into, when we barely just met.”

“It is.” He takes a step closer, his voice lowering. “Take a breath. I can see the tension in your shoulders, and it is not nearly party nerves.”

“It's part party nerves,” John argues. “Is it fucked up that at least this gives me something to do, besides mingle?”  
  
Barsad laughs softly. “When you scan the room, make it as though you are looking for someone specific. Nod towards them in greeting, then turn back to your drink. It makes you look less like you are casing the place.”

“I don't know anyone except you guys, and Bruce looks busy, and Talia is on his arm even though you can tell she thinks it should be the other way around.”

“She is right.” Barsad grins. His face turns serious, then, and he reaches to touch John's cheek, guiding him to look at him and away from the crowd for a moment. “This is a very dangerous night, John. We have already had one scare.”

“You're fucking telling me, and I know. I know I'm just eyes, right now, observe and report. Believe me. I've had enough action for the day.” He breathes out slowly, and Barsad can see the tired redness in his eyes, his voice still rough from screams. He needs rest, and Barsad wants to take him back to bed to have it, tuck him safe between Bane and himself, and keep him out the world for a few days so he has time to recover, but the world is never that fair.

“Observe and report,” Barsad agrees, rubbing his thumb against John’s cheek. John's eyes focus on him, and there is a stillness in the air around them, despite the crowd. It has them both leaning in closer to keep that small quietness, close enough that Barsad's focus is stolen by how John's tongue dips out nervously, by the slight tickle of his breath hitting his lips.

One quick kiss never hurt anyone, and it appears John feels the same, because Barsad is not the one to close the distance between their mouths. That stolen kiss is warm and sweet, nervous but certain, and far too fleeting as they part. He watches as John's lip twitches upwards into an almost-smile.

“That was very sweet.” Talia's voice suddenly comes across their earbuds, and John's ears turn pink.

“What was sweet?” Bane's voice is suddenly next, and Barsad bites back a groan.

“Nothing, brother. Later,” He promises, shaking his head and giving John a small smile. His own eyes scan the room, and he spots Mr. Fox. “Ah. Come, it will be good for you to meet someone, and it gives us a reason to move around the room. He knows what is going on, he is helping how he can,” Barsad explains as he walks them over. “You should thank him. He is responsible for your cure.”

“Did he make it? Yeah, I fucking should, then,” John agrees, clearly holding back a shudder.

“Mr. Fox, this is John, a very good friend of ours.” Barsad nods to him in greeting. “He is a very big fan of the work you have done.”

“A huge fan,” John agrees, seriously, as he reaches his hand out. It's clear he's not used to offering a lot of handshakes, but Fox doesn't seem to mind, squeezing his hand in turn.

“I will check on my sister,” Barsad says. Perhaps it was cruel to simply leave them, but Barsad does not like to stand in one spot, and he wants to give the room a full sweep. After, he would pull Fox aside, suggest to him that he leave the party early. For now, though, he walks closer to Talia and Bruce. It is hard to get close to them, so surrounded by people who wished to be able to say they had spoken with Bruce's string.

____________________

John is pretty sure dumping him onto another party guest is really damn rude. Especially when he just had his first kiss with Barsad. He doesn’t want to just blow Mr. Fox off, though, not if what Barsad said is true. He owes him his fucking life.

“Barsad told me I should thank you, for the stuff you made.” John clears his throat. Barsad said that this guy knows things, but it feels strange talking to him about it like this, like he is risking spilling a secret that isn’t his.

“Oh, you're quite welcome, young man.” Mr. Fox has a slight glint of a smile to his eyes, but John can’t help but notice there is a worried edge to it. Because of John? Because of everything that is going on? Probably the second, more likely. “I didn't know Mr. Wayne had anyone else experiment in his party-going. If this is going to be a regular thing, I'll need to whip another batch.”

“Yeah, uh, you might want to do more than that.” He steps closer, not sure he should say anything, but Barsad _said_ this man knew what was going on. “Uh, all of Gotham might be in on the next party. It looks like somebody spiked the punch.”

“The punch,” Mr. Fox repeats back to him.

“The water supply,” he whispers, feeling strangely like a spy out of the books he used to read when he was young _. “_ It's all in there, now. I, uh, I'm pretty new to what's going on, but they just found out, tonight.”

“Well, water wouldn't do much good, John,” Mr. Fox says, and John nods in agreement.

“Yeah, they said it had to be in the air, but it's there, in the water. They don't know what that means.”

“It means, John,” Fox speaks slowly, as though an awful idea was just coming to him, “that things are about to turn very bad, very quickly. Long story short, a piece of equipment is missing from Mr. Wayne's stock. A microwave emitter that can turn large bodies of water into vapor, in seconds.”

John's stomach feels like it's sinking down into his shined shoes. “Can it do it to the entire city?”

“Not all at once. It's a big machine, though. Whole neighborhoods could go. They'd need to move it around to reach the entire city.”

“How big is big? Could it fit in a car?”

Mr. Fox shakes his head. “No, it'd need a power source, and something a lot bigger to move it. Something fast, if this maniac wanted to take down all of Gotham before people could react.”

John's hand grips tight to his champagne flute, threatening to snap it in two. He needs to talk to Bruce, or Talia, or someone, now. “Something like a train?”

“Yes, John, something like a train.”

 

____________________

 

“You should be with John.” Talia's voice is low as she smiles to another greeter, holding out her hand.  
  


“I will go back to him in a moment,” Barsad agrees. “Let me play the part of your overprotective older brother for a moment.”

“Only if you will cut off the lips of the next man who attempts to kiss my hand.” She smiles as she says it, not breaking her façade or stride as she holds her hand out to greet another.

“Simply say the word,” he agrees readily. He touches her shoulder, and his eyes go back to the hors d'oeuvres table, where he left John with Fox.

But neither of them are to be found.

“Do you see John?” His voice is strained, as his grip tightens on her shoulder. His tone gets Bruce's attention, and the three of them are suddenly craning their necks to search the guests. It is hard to see, and his string is little help as it floats and curves this way and that way around the crowd, but Barsad feels as though John's ears, alone, should be easy to pick out in a crowd, and he does not see even a peek of them or him.

“John.” His finger touches the communicator, and he is distracted as some self-entitled woman jostles past him to grab Bruce's arm. She announces to practically the entire room that there's simply someone he _must_ meet. It is clear that neither Bruce nor Talia could care less as the woman goes on, as if she heard none of Bruce's brush-off. Barsad considers throttling her, until she speaks again.

“Am I pronouncing his correctly? Mr. Ra's Al Ghul?”

All of their heads snap towards the man in question, but Barsad can see even from the back of the head that this is not their former leader. It is merely one of his favorite tricks, and he turns his head instead to the crowd, unsurprised when he sees Ra’s step out to greet Bruce and Talia.

“We were wondering when you would come to see us, father.” Talia's voice is calm, so polite, a sophisticated woman greeting her family, and he can hear the murmurs in the crowd over it. A few phones are pulled from people’s pockets, no doubt trying to get pictures for later gossip.

“Still resorting to cheap parlor tricks?” Bruce's tone is softer, no doubt lost on the crowd, and Ra's steps closer. Barsad feels his eyes on him, a quick glance over, an appraisal as nothing to be considered a threat, and moving on. It makes his blood boil. This man who he once felt was a great leader, one who he spilled such blood for.

“Surely a man who spends his nights scrambling over the rooftops of Gotham wouldn't begrudge me dual identities?”

“How can you fault him for learning from your teachings, father?” Talia returns. Her hand is no longer on Bruce's arm. It rests on her thigh, instead, no doubt a weapon concealed close to her fingertips. Barsad's own is tucked into his suit jacket.

“Let these people go,” Bruce whispers, his eyes glancing around the crowd. It reminds Barsad that John is still nowhere to be seen. He does not dare move, now, or say anything. His communicator is on, though, as is Talia’s, and he hopes that what is being said can be heard by both John and Bane.

“These are Bruce Wayne's guests,” Ra's says simply. “I am not holding them hostage. If you wish them to leave, dismiss them.”

Talia and Bruce lock eyes with one another, and Barsad knows they have worked something out together. There is a sudden wobble to Talia's legs, and Bruce's arm is draped over her too heavily. It is far too much for them, and the slur to Bruce's words as he suddenly proposes a toast are too heavy. Were the situation far less dire, Barsad would be laughing.

As it is, even he must bite his inner cheek as he watches Bruce hurl insults he has likely been holding in since childhood, watches the crowd dissipate, as only a handful are left. Barsad sees more than one familiar face. Ra's Al Ghul has clearly been recruiting, but there are core brothers here that Barsad will be loath to fight, even knowing that they will not hesitate to deliver a killing strike to him.

“I saved your life, _we_ saved your life,” Bruce points out when the crowd is gone, rather futilely. Truly, he never knew their leader as well as he thought he did.

“That was your mistake to make. Justice will be served here.” Ra's’ eyes go to Talia's, glancing down at her hand. “You are my daughter, and my greatest student. There should be no fight here. It should be you standing by my side, saving the world, abolishing the corruption here.”

“There is still good here, father. Bruce has shown me that, and you are foolish to let it burn as you wish.” Talia spits out the words. The scent of gasoline hits Barsad's nose, and it is hard to miss the splashes of it hitting the walls, soaking priceless heirlooms. There is fire, next. Smoke is in the air, and Barsad's hand slips into his jacket.

“Tomorrow, the world will watch in horror over what Gotham has done to itself.” Ra's’ tone speaks of finality, and Barsad's gun leaves his jacket, the safety off. “Both of you have failed me. You lack the courage to do what is necessary. If someone stands in the way of true justice, you simply walk up behind them, and stab them in the heart.”

A heavy blow hits his shoulder, and Talia's knife glints in the flames. They are surrounded by the League, attacked. Where is Bane? Where is John? He tugs at both of his strings as he ducks behind a table and reloads his clip, the first round spent already, bodies laid out on the floor and slowly being consumed by flames. There is a great snap, the sound of wood splintering apart, and the crash of it dropping. He hears Talia shouting Bruce's name, and when he looks out, he sees that a beam has collapsed. He can do little to help now, though, beyond providing cover fire for them as other League members attempt to use the distraction to their advantage.

 

____________________

 

Bane is familiar, from his readings, of the classical trope involving a monster hiding behind the scenes to watch a party or performance. He barely holds back from making the observation aloud, even if it amuses him, knowing that his family would frown at his self-comparison, even in jest. Still, there are enough places to hide, rooms to slip into, staircases to observe from, that he can see much of the party without ever entering it.

He watches as Talia is paraded around the room. This is as much her party as it is Wayne's, at least in the eyes of the guests who are getting their first glimpses of her. He is proud of her, feels a strange twisting in his chest when she looks so grown, so complete, without his presence. It is everything he has wanted for her, and that wistful pang is welcome. He can see his brother, also, John with him, their strings hazy and floating down through the air as he stands at the corner of a high staircase, watching. A subtle shift of Barsad's hand, and he can feel his string being plucked.

He is more surprised, though, later into the party, after Barsad and John have separated, when he feels the sudden and urgent pull on his other hand. He cannot help but notice that he no longer sees him in the crowd, but he does not wish to cause alarm, switching his com to only speak with John.

“Is everything alright? Where have you gone?”

“Just tell me where you are.”

John finds him in a secluded hall. The look in his eyes speaks of pure urgency. “I talked to some guy, Lucius Fox. I know how that shit is getting into the air. There's this machine. It's going to vaporize the water supply. And it's not just that. They're gonna use the train to move it around, make the fucking city all implode at once—”

Bane is, of course, listening, but he is also grabbing John's shoulder, firmly yanking him into the kitchen and closing the door behind them. He has not missed the sudden shadow lurking in the hall.

“They are here,” he explains, his tone calm. John grabs a chair, shoving it under the door handle.

“Barsad—”

“My brother and sister will be able to take care of themselves. They are certain to know, now, as well.” He cannot say for certain that he has not been seen, and communication, now, would risk their own exposure. He walks over to the tall window over the kitchen sink, looking through it cautiously before sliding it up as noiselessly as possible. “We will find this train.”

 

____________________

 

“We have trained for years together, and you cannot even lift a log?” Talia berates Bruce as she avoids the flames licking at the wood, ignoring his exasperation as she hefts it up.

They are surrounded by several bodies, but Barsad feels little satisfaction in it. There are too many familiar faces here. Faces he trained with, brothers and sisters that he knows are here following passionate teachings that he once believed in with the same zeal. He can tell by the way his family avoids looking too closely at those faces that they feel the same.

“Bane, John?” He uses them as a distraction, needing to know they are well.

“We're ok.” John's voice is muffled over the communicator, or perhaps it is simply breathless. “We're out of the house. We stole one of Bruce's cars.”

That forces a sharp laugh out of Bruce. “As long as it's not the Rolls, it's yours. Where are you?”

“John reached a logical deduction from information he received from Mr. Fox,” Bane explains. “We have every reason to believe that Ra's Al Ghul now possesses a device that will vaporize Gotham's water supply.”

Barsad is already racing towards the tumbler as Bane explains John's theory on the train, disgruntled that Bruce has managed to reach it first, even after just having a beam fall on him. Talia slides in, and it is a tight fit with all three of them, but none of them plan on being left behind.

“He'll start in the Narrows.” Bruce's voice is rough, smoke perhaps, or more likely he has slipped into his alternate persona, even lacking his usual garb. It is not as if they could allow time to stop and change. “It's the perfect place to start. Strategically and philosophically.”

 

____________________

 

“Yeah, the line starts there. We're already crossing the bridge,” John agrees. His hand is clenched so hard on the steering wheel that his knuckles are white. It isn’t like he is used to being behind a wheel much, but him in the driver's seat is less conspicuous than Bane. “Lucius said he would work on as much of that antidote as he can, but there's no way he can make enough, in time... Do we have any now?”

“The last of it, we gave to Rachel, to give to the commissioner, to inoculate himself, and to take to a bigger lab for further synthesis. It's not going to be enough. We need to stop him before it starts,” Bruce says, but they all know that's easier said than done.

“You sent it with Rachel?” John asks suddenly. “Bruce, you know you her as well as I do. The first thing she's gonna do is try to stay and help, if there's trouble. She's going to be in the line of fire.” He knew she was an adult, but she was way braver than was safe for someone who didn't know anything about fighting, which he could recognize was a little hypocritical, but John had grown up on the streets, at least, and he'd been in his fair share of fist fights. He just wasn't exactly versed in ninja fighting.

“The Narrows is being shut down,” Bane interrupts their arguing as he turns to watch the chaos behind them, the barricades being erected, no doubt a desperate effort to contain the chaos of Arkham. “You will need to find a way to get through,” he warns Bruce and the others as he turns his attention back to their surroundings.

“We need to find Rachel.”

“We need to find Ra's al Ghul,” Bane argues firmly. “It will take some time for them to join us, and if we cannot stop this in time, Rachel will be torn apart by a city gone mad with fear.”

John hates how right he is. He also hates how the streets are being swarmed, now. The deeper into the Narrows they get, the more he feels like he’s going to run someone down. The car is useless the closer they get to the train, and soon they are on foot. Bane's huge hand is holding tight to his shoulder as they run up the steps to the station.

“Shit, hurry!” John can see the doors starting to shut on the train. They're going to fucking miss it. Too little, too late. They can't fucking miss this. The strong hand on his shoulder tightens, and he thinks it's in sympathy.

What he doesn't think is that it's in order to literally _throw_ him at the doors, to stop them from closing. He's not a lightweight, and if anyone ever asks, he'll never tell how he nearly _screeched_ as Bane used their already high momentum to fling him at the sliding doors in just enough time for him to slide between them. The emergency stop makes them hiss and fly open as his hands scramble to cling to the door frame, barely hanging onto the moving train as Bane uses his body as a ladder to climb in after him. John's heart threatens to leap out of his throat as they're treated to the view of the sharp drop they just narrowly avoided, the wind whipping around their bodies as the door stays jammed open from their abuse.

They're alone in the rear train car, but John has no doubt that one of the cars contains the device Fox described. Bane is already ahead of him, prying open the next set of doors. John really wishes he had a gun, and that he actually knew how to fire a gun. If they live through this, he's definitely going to make his strings teach him all of their fucking ninja secrets, he decides, as he watches his string waft between him and Bane, as he looks up to see another man standing in front of them. He looks familiar. Had he seen him at the party?

“Bane.”

 

____________________

 

Bane only nods in greeting to Ra's al Ghul. There is a small measure of regret in him. He would never delude himself into thinking that his leader had ever had any care for him, but this was Talia's father. A man gone mad with grief, not able to be pulled from what Bane could now recognize as a delusion of control over a world that could never be contained even with his genocidal 'culling'.

There is no talking of reason. Ra's does not waste time attempting to convince him to join 'his side', which is of little surprise. Ra's has never _wished_ him to be on his side. Instead, there is the soft, metallic ring of his teacher's sword being unsheathed, barely able to be heard above the rattling of the train.

Bane only has his fists. He dodges blows, his own punches being avoided. It is a dangerous dance with steel against skin, against the leather of his mask. That weakness Ra's knows immediately to strike, after he himself delivers a blow to man's stomach, what he had thought was enough to wind him, but now suddenly it is he who cannot breathe, the world tunneling around him as pain clouds his brain.

“Bane? Bane!” John's voice sounds far away as Bane stumbles to his knees, his hands tearing into the benches, bending their rusting metal poles.

“I will not kill you. You do not fear death, but you do fear your own pain. Let it consume you while this city destroys itself.”

 

 


End file.
